Analyze This
by WhereTheMildThingsAre
Summary: One of the Special Victims Unit members is assaulted, and it's not who you'd expect... In the process of working through the after events, can two people come closer together? Slash
1. Chapter I: Contingency

Alright, time to take a stab at SVU Fanfiction! Like the summary said, it's not someone you'd expect right away. Now, I'm a GeorgeAlex Shipper myself, but ElliotGeorge has become a bit of a guilty pleasure of mine, and this fic revolves around that pairing, so if you don't like it... by all means, turn back! Flames regarding this will be ingored or laughed at. I haven't decided yet.

Yes, yes, I know the title is cliche, but I can't help it. Plus, it's appropriate and I haven't seen it taken yet. And it also leaves room for a sequal...

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DISCLAIMER: Law & Order: Special Victims Unit belongs to Dick Wolf and NBC. If it belonged to me, there would be none of this talk about cancelling it or starting over with low-budget actors...

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Chapter 1: Contingency

He sighed as he stepped into the early morning air, car keys dangling from his fingers, medical bag in one hand and files stashed under his other arm. Shutting his car door disturbed the quiet in a strangely unsettling way. He unconsciously attempted to burrow deeper in his coat as he stepped toward the stairs of his apartment building. He still had so much work to do, but all he wanted to do was get some sleep. Just as he was about to open the door, he paused, thinking he heard something. Even his breathing seemed loud and he held it for a moment, listening.

There it was again. It sounded faintly like someone calling for help. Looking around him and seeing no one, he quickly placed the files on the step and thrust his keys into his coat pocket. Rounding the corner of his building brought him into the alley. It was used for trash bins and recyclables mostly, though a few other, more questionable activities often took place there.

"Hello?" he called out questioningly.

No answer.

Squinting in the darkness, he walked in further. Perhaps whoever had been calling was no longer conscious? He stuck his hands out in front of him, attempting to find his way through the inky black void.

"Hello, is anyone--"

He didn't really know what happened. Something--or someone--collided with him and he felt a sharp pain in his upper arm. No, it was definitely a someone. He blinked rapidly from his position on the ground and attempted to speak. His tongue felt thick and his head swam.

"You should've known. You should've known something like this would happen," the other said, leaning over him.

Should've known? He attempted to lash out, but his arms felt like rubber and his attacker easily grabbed ahold of his wrist, pinning it over his head. The attacker, a male judging by the timber of his voice, reached down and began to undo his belt, furiously. He could barely move.

"Nngh... stop..." he managed to choke out.

"No stopping. You're going to get what's been coming to you for years and I'm going to be the one to do it," the other growled.

He was vaguely aware of his shirt being torn open and his trousers pulled down as he slipped into unconsciousness.

* * *

Elliot Stabler sighed as he placed the phone back in its rocker; perhaps with more force than was necessary. Olivia tossed him a look that was clearly asking him to calm down, but the Irishman already had his blood boiling. They were right in the middle of an important case... this stage of the game was crucial!

"Look, Liv, I can't help but be a little pissed off, y'know?" he grumbled.

"I know, I know, I'm right there with you. But I'm sure there's a perfectly good reason," Olivia said consolingly.

"I can't think of any," Elliot huffed. "We need something to go on! So far we have next to nothing."

"How many times have you called so far?"

"...only thirteen."

Olivia tossed him a flat stare and he shifted slightly, pushing a pencil around his desk.

"In the past hour," he concluded.

"Maybe he's running late. Or maybe he could be on his way here now," Olivia reasoned.

"I hardly think he'd be stuck in three hours of traffic, Liv," Elliot retorted.

Olivia sighed and tried to focus on the paper in front of her. Doctor Huang had failed to show up at the precinct that morning, causing quite a stir among the members of the Special Victim's Unit. But it was probably nothing... he'd gotten a flat, or something along those lines and hadn't been able to call. Elliot was right in saying they needed him, though. Without a profile for them to work off of, they had almost no leads. She almost laughed at the thought that Elliot had indirectly admitted he needed Huang there. Elliot was a bit stiff-necked when it came to the Good Doctor, seeming to go into his strange "macho mode" to out-do the other.

They both lifted their heads at the sound of Cragen's office door opening, perhaps a reflex by now. As he marched over to them, Olivia got a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. Something about the expression on his face seemed... off. Elliot quirked an eyebrow as the Captain stopped a few feet away from their desks.

"Elliot, Olivia, a word in my office. Now," Cragen barked.

Elliot's other eyebrow raised to join the first one as he gave Olivia a questioning glance. Shrugging, she stood and he followed her to Cragen's office. Shutting the door behind them, Elliot couldn't help but feel like a child called to the principal's office. Something about Cragen always managed to make him feel that way.

"What's goin' on, Cap?" he questioned.

Cragen rubbed at his eyes tiredly before leaning on his desk. "I need you and Olivia to drop your caseload off to Munch and Finn and get down to Saint Vincent's Memorial Hospital."

"...okay. Do we get some sort of explanation?" Olivia pressed.

"You have a new case to work with. And this one can't wait," Cragen said. "I just got a call from the Feds."

Olivia put two and two together faster than Elliot. "You're not saying what I think you're saying, are you?"

"I wish I could say otherwise. I really do," Cragen admitted. "A bus brought the Doc in around four hours ago. I'll need you two to get his statement."

* * *

The walls of the precinct were often subject to poor treatment in the sense that they were riddled with holes shaped and sized not unlike Elliot Stabler's fists. Captain Cragen had long ago stopped trying to persuade him to take his frustrations out on things less damage prone... like the concrete parking lot. Looking now at the stark white walls of the hospital, he felt it almost a crime to mar them in the same way, but that didn't stop the anger welling up inside him like a volcano.

While it was true he and the psychiatrist weren't always on the best of terms, he was still on of _their _own. It was easy to forget he was on perma-loan from the Feds... because he was _theirs_. And when someone hurt one of _their_ own, they often found themselves on the _wrong_ end of one of his temper tantrums.

Olivia could practically see the anger radiating off her partner. She knew Elliot wasn't heartless, but it had surprised her slightly to see him so worked up. She had thought he would at least feign some kind of calm, but no. He was in his full blown "wait until I find the sick son-of-a-bitch who did this so I can fuck them up" mode as he all but stormed down the hall. Nurses and doctors quickly pressed themselves to the wall, almost as though they were trying to be absorbed into it, just to get out of his way.

When at last they reached the room, however, he stopped some feet away and refused to move any further. Olivia took careful notice of her partner's constantly clenching and unclenching fists.

"El, what's wrong?" she questioned.

"I'm not sure if I should go in," he stated.

Olivia nodded mentally. Like an idiot, Elliot chose now to feel guilty about acting stand-offish towards George. Rather than push him to do so, she only shrugged slightly, hand on the door latch.

"Alright. You wait here then," she said.

"I just... think he'd feel more comfortable 'f it was you 'nstead 'a me, y'know?" he said, Brooklyn accent standing out due to his emotions.

"Sure. I understand," she said, hoping he understood just how well.

Nodding once to him, she opened the door without pause, poking her head in experimentally. The figure in the bed was asleep, at least... that was how he appeared. Slipping inside, she closed the door as quietly as humanly possible and crossed the room equally so. Reaching the bed, she wondered if Elliot's anger-management issues were starting to rub off on her as she felt a severe need to hit something. Reaching for the clipboard at the end of the bed, she read.

Multiple contusions, stab wound between the seventh and eighth rib, signs of sexual assault...

She stopped there. There was no need to read any more. A million thoughts raced through her head at once, becoming jumbled. It was like a backed up fax machine: all the papers were just becoming crammed together, slowing down the machine and leaving it unable to process the information coming in. The prevailing though on her mind was wondering who could have done it.

"I wish I could tell you."

* * *

I know, I'm such a bitch. Why must I torture my favorite characters? I do hope I was able to keep everyone in character, as short as this chapter was. Think of it as a teaser... thingy. The next chapter will be longer (and hopefully better) I promise. I never understood he point of putting "R&R!" down here. If you're reading this, wouldn't that mean you've already _read_ the fic? Unless you came in here just to sample my witty humor in the pre- and post-ambles, completely ignoring the story. Which I doubt. So then, reviews are appreciated and I hope to see you next chapter!


	2. Chapter II: Delineation

-hesitantly peeks out from under her arms- It's a miracle... I wasn't stoned to death! In a complete turn of events I actually got reviews. Wow. I'm touched guys, really. I thought for sure I would be subjected to a slow, agonizing death at the mercy of your words. To kick things off, thanks to my lovely reviewers! Reading all of your reviews made me want to update all the quicker.

**J0:** Whoa, a teacher. Well, I'm still in school myself, so having a teacher read my work is really helpful (and flattering, frankly). I really hope I don't disappoint you. I end up watching my DVDs just to make sure I'm getting their personalities down right... but I know I'm not perfect. As for Cragen, well, I always envisioned him as a big, old dog. Dogs bark when they're nervous or otherwise upset, so it seemed appropriate at the time. Though... I could be taking that analogy a bit too far.

**laurahalvey:** Well, I did want to gor for the shock factor. I see so many fics with Olivia as the victim and I decided to try something new. And so here we are. :D

**Svu Sister:** Thanks very much! I hope you'll continue to read as I continue to (hopefully) update.

**bananasplit224:** Well, I'll be damned. Someone _did_ come in just for the pre-amble! Either way, thanks for stopping in and I'm glad I was able to give you a little chuckle.

**lotus-brody:** Ah, hi there! I've only recently come into the EG fandom, myself. It seems like a "fluffy" or otherwise "WAFF" pairing for me. I'm always glad to see another fan searching for a fix. Hopefully I won't let you down!

**AllAboutTheWriting:** Lovely pen name. Anyway, yes, I find it interesting to read about our bunch becoming victims as well. I just get tired of the usual Olivia-gets-raped stories. So I made one for George because apparently I lack a soul. And yes, EG does seem incredibly cute for reasons even I don't know yet. Here's your update!

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**DISCLAIMER: **I do not own Law & Order: Special Victim Unit, as previously stated. If I did, half the cast would be gay, and you wouldn't want that, now, would you?

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Chapter II: Delineation 

"I wish I could tell you."

Olivia pulled a quick 180, turning to face him, flustered, as though she'd been caught snooping. She moved her hands between several positions, trying to look natural and opted for shoving them into her jacket pockets. George regarded her in a mildly curious way, his characteristic smirk hovering on his lips. It would figure he would still maintain his calm and insightful nature even after this. Striding over, she sat in the seat next to his bed and tried to get a good look at him without seeming too prying.

"Elliot hasn't come with you, I see," George noted.

"No, he's just outside. He didn't want to make you feel uncomfortable," Olivia explained.

He nodded slowly, appreciatively, but did not say either way whether or not he would have been uncomfortable. Olivia shifted in her seat, not liking this whole thing one bit. She was used to distraught, often times sobbing victims. His apparent apathy was enough to set her stomach tumbling upside-down.

"Listen, George," she began, not entirely sure where she was going. "I just want you to know that, whoever did this, we'll get 'em. I promise, we will. I don't want to seem pushy, but... Do you think you could tell me what happened?"

She sat patiently, listening to the psychiatrist stumble through a fuzzy recollection, trying to make sure he got the details right. He'd been shot up with an anesthetic, ironically the same kind he carried around in his medical bag. As he concluded, Olivia frowned, chewing thoughtfully on her lower lip.

"This guy must know you from somewhere, then," she stated.

"That's what I assumed, but I'm having a difficult time placing the voice," George replied.

"And you didn't get a good look at his face... a former patient maybe? A colleague?" Olivia pressed.

He shook his head slightly. "None that I can recall."

"Any fellow FBI giving you trouble?" she asked.

"None," George responded.

"He said you had it coming a long time, maybe we're not thinking back far enough," Olivia ventured.

"The only thing I can say even mildly resembles hostility were a few rivalries of sorts that I had in med school," George replied.

"Rivalries?" Olivia repeated, questioningly. It might not be much, but it was something to start with...

"It's a tough field; win or go home, as it were," he noted with a smile. Although it really couldn't be considered a smile so much as a slight upturning of the lips. "It got out of hand once or twice, but nothing that could have brought this on."

"Well, we'll investigate these 'rivals' all the same," Olivia assured him.

He nodded again before lapsing into silence. She felt suddenly very stupid, just sitting there watching him. It may have been his job, but he'd always been there with a friendly word of advice or a smile when she needed it. She wondered how he did it, day in and day out. Dealing with other people's messes, surely he must have some of his own?

"Listen, um... I know it might not sound like much coming from me, but if you need someone to talk to don't hesitate to gimme a ring," Olivia said, holding her cell phone up for effect.

"That means a lot to me. Thank you, Olivia," George responded, seeming slightly less apathetic.

"It's about time I returned the favor anyway," she said standing. "I've got to go speak to Elliot about this... did you want us to post someone to watch the room?"

"No, I believe I'll be fine," he replied.

"All right. My cell will be on 24/7 so any time you need me, I'm available," she stated once more, opening the door. "We'll have the guy before you know it. I'll even look the other way if Elliot wants to sneak in a punch or two... so try not to think about it too much."

She knew that was impossible, but still she felt compelled to say it. To say _something._ With one last smile—one which she hoped was comforting—she exited the room, closing the door quietly behind her. Elliot still stood to the side, shuffling his feet like a guilty schoolboy. He dragged his eyes away from the floor in order to meet hers.

"How's the Doc?" he questioned.

"Awake," Olivia replied. She really didn't know what else to say.

"Well I assume he must be if you were talking to him. I mean _how _is he?" Elliot pressed.

"If you're so eager to know, why don't you go talk to him?" Olivia snapped.

He clammed up immediately, drawing back to his previously sullen mood. She felt immediately guilty over being short with him, but he was acting childish. He was acting like it was his fault. With Elliot, many things were his fault—or rather he _assumed_ many things were his fault. She sighed.

"El, it's not like you did this to him," Olivia reasoned. "If you go in there he's not going to yell at you and tell you it was your fault."

"But come on, Liv. Of all the people..." Elliot grumbled. "It just doesn't make sense. He tries to help these sick fucks and then one of 'em turns around and does to him what he's trying to help them get over."

"Then if you feel that way, why don't you apply that focus on the case? Make sure we nail the guy who did it," Olivia said persuasively. "There's no way in hell this guy's getting away without one of your famous 'I didn't see anything, did you Liv?' beatings."

He smirked slightly at this. "All right, you've got me there. We'll make sure he gets one."

"Great. George gave me a few names to go on so let's go check them out," Olivia said.

"Yeah. Yeah, let's do that," Elliot asserted, quickly moving down the hallway with his partner.

* * *

"Yeah, I heard about it. How's he doing?" 

Olivia and Elliot stood in the office of Agent Halley Wordsworth. Apparently, she'd dropped everything when she'd been notified they had arrived at the FBI branch and wanted to question her before politely asking them to step into her office. She was of average height with wavy red hair, blue eyes and a pale complexion spattered with freckles.

"Better than most people in that situation," Olivia answered.

"Mmm. Yes. I'm not surprised," Wordsworth said with a slight frown. "I hope I can help in some way."

"We hope so too. Now, it says here that you went to Med School with Doctor Huang?" Olivia said questioningly.

"Oh, yes, I did. His dorm was just below mine on the next floor," Wordsworth stated.

"You two got along well?" Elliot asked.

"Yes, we were good friends. I didn't particularly care for his room mate though and, quite frankly, no one did," Wordsworth said with a frown.

"Was this room mate's name..." Elliot said, flipping through his notes. "...Kyle Cunningham?"

"Yes, that was him. George always said he respected him on an intellectual level... but I doubt he was really sincere about it. The man was an ass, if you'll pardon my language," Wordsworth snorted.

"Did he have any problems with Doctor Huang?" Olivia pressed.

"Of course. Several people did," Wordsworth recited, as though it were common knowledge. "It's not as if he was rude or uptight... George was just a bright guy. In our field, people get envious of that kind of talent very quickly. And when people get envious... well, let's say it's a bit different than when football players are jealous of the star player."

"I see what you're saying. Mind dropping the names of a few of these envious people our way?" Elliot asked.

"Sure thing. I'm glad to hand them over," she stated.

"She was suspicious," Elliot grumbled, exiting the building.

"Elliot, you've said that about every single person we've interviewed," Olivia said, shaking her head and grinning despite herself.

"Yeah, well this one's personal. When somebody goes after one of ours, they'll get no sympathy from me," Elliot stated.

"All right, I get it," she replied with a shrug. "I just never thought I'd see the day when you leaped to George's defense."

"I never thought I'd see the day when I had to," he responded.

* * *

"This prick's a doctor?" Elliot snorted, looking up at a small clinic. 

"You haven't even met him yet," Olivia said in response to his name calling. "And seeing as he went to med school, I would assume he went into the medical profession."

They exchanged brief smirks as they walked into the lobby. That was one thing Olivia liked about her partner. She and Elliot shared a connection that only partners can. It was like... sharing a brain, sometimes. They knew the little jokes and the mock-snide remarks were merely play—something to lighten the horribly smog that so often seemed to hang over them due to their line of work.

The lobby was clean and well organized. There was a large tank in the corner, housing several exotic fish which peered upon Elliot and Olivia with unsympathetic gazes from their two-by-four prison. There were a handful of people waiting in the lobby, all of them teens. Most of them looked as though they didn't want to be there. One lanky boy had greasy black hair and pallid skin, giving him the withered appearance of a neglected plant. Trying not to stare at them further, Elliot approached the front desk with Olivia. The receptionist—a blonde woman with plump features and a port wine stain covering half her face—smiled brightly as they approached.

"Good afternoon, my name is Mary. How may I help you?" she asked politely.

"Good afternoon, Mary. I'm Detective Stabler, this is my partner Detective Benson," Elliot said, pausing just long enough for them to flash their badges, "and we're investigating an assault and we were wondering if we could possibly speak to Doctor Cunningham."

"Ah, let's see... oh, you're in luck! He should be done with his current patient in a minute or so. I don't think he'd mind squeezing you in before his next," Mary informed them. "Why don't you wait in his office and I'll tell him you're here. It's just down that hall and to the left, right before you reach the supply closet."

"Great, thanks a lot Mary," Elliot said with a grin.

He and Olivia strolled down the hall and entered the office. Immediately, Olivia's stomach turned. Doctor Cunningham's office walls were plastered with framed pictures of... Doctor Cunningham. She walked around and began examining them. One from graduation, one shaking hands with the mayor, one with a woman who was presumably his wife; not to mention the awards hanging everywhere. The guy was full of himself.

"All right, Elliot maybe you were right," Olivia admitted.

"See? I told ya. I can sniff these guys out in an instant," Elliot said proudly.

"Hello there, I'm sorry for the wait, I was finishing up with a patient," Cunningham said, ushering them to seats at his desk. "Mary tells me you're investigating an assault...?"

"Yes, early this morning Doctor George Huang was beaten and sexually assaulted outside his apartment," Olivia stated mechanically.

"Huang? _George _Huang? My God, I haven't seen him since we roomed at NYU," Cunningham replied, shock evident in his features.

"As you can tell we're investigating anyone who may have held a grudge," Elliot stated.

Cunningham looked between them quickly, a short, startled half-laugh escaping his lips. "You don't mean... You don't think _I_ had anything to do with this, do you?"

"That depends... where were you between the hours of one and five this morning?" Elliot answered.

"I... I was home," he replied.

"Can anyone vouch for you? Your wife maybe?" Olivia asked.

"No, we... we're divorced. I live alone," Cunningham stated, growing paler with each question.

"Really. So no one can vouch for your where-abouts between those hours?" Elliot said, looking like a wolf going in for the kill.

"No, not that I know of," Cunningham said. "Wait, the uh... uh... security cameras! There are security cameras in outside my apartment complex as well as in the lobby, all the elevators and the garage. Look at them, I swear I was at home all night."

"We'll do that," Olivia said.

"Now, being a psychiatrist you've probably got..." Elliot said, letting his sentence hang while he referred to his notes. "...gamma-Hydroxybutyrate lying around somewhere, right?"

"Of course. Sometimes a patient will get out of control and need to be sedated," Cunningham said, running a hand through his neat blonde hair in exasperation.

"Then you know of its other uses," Olivia prodded.

"What, as a date rape drug? Yes, but... alright, George and I weren't the best of friends, but I wouldn't dream of going to these lengths just to get back at him for a... a... petty school grudge!" Cunningham all but shouted, his expression livid.

"You'd be surprised. We've seen stranger things in Special Victims," Olivia said, rising from her seat. "All the same, we're going to check out those security tapes. Chances are you'll be seeing us again soon, so don't think about skipping town, okay?"

Cunningham did nothing to stop them as they left his office, his jaw nearly on the floor.

* * *

Elliot let his head fall onto the desk with a sigh, feeling dead tired. His eyes felt dry and rough. Olivia leaned over his shoulder worriedly. She patted him on the shoulder, causing the Irishman to look up. There was a large red mark on his forehead and she smiled sympathetically. He sighed, leaning back in his chair. 

"We talked to the doorman, we talked to the receptionist, we talked to the staff and I've watched these security tapes more times than I'd care to count. I've watched the same dog take the same shit eight times already," he groaned, rubbing his eyes. "I thought we had our guy..."

"You never know, El. We still might. We just need to investigate things a bit more. Besides, we still have a few other leads," Olivia reasoned. "In the mean time, why don't you go home and get some sleep. You're not helping anyone by pounding your face into the desk."

He frowned slightly. After splitting up with Kathy, going home seemed... empty. It wasn't really home he was going to. Sleep did sound like a good idea right about now, but he had a feeling he'd just end up lying awake in his bed for a few hours before coming back to work. Instead, a different idea popped into his head. He got up, grabbing his jacket off the back of the chair.

"Thanks for the advice Liv, I think I'll take it," he said warmly.

"Hey, someone's gotta watched out for you," she teased.

Grinning, he exited the precinct and stepped into the cool midnight air. Hopping in his car, he knew right where he was going—right down to the floor and room number.

* * *

It was a different story, however, when he actually reached the room. The hospital ordinarily didn't allow visitors at this time, but the nurse on call was a friendly old woman by the name of Agnes who made an exception "just for him." Yet here he now stood, hand poised over the door latch. There he had stood for the past half hour. There he would probably stand for a while longer yet... 

But wait! Amazingly, as if his hand was smarter than his brain, he opened the door. Stepping in, he shut the door behind him as quietly as he could manage. Or tried to. The door got stuck and he had to force it closed, resulting in a not-so-silent slam. He winced, kicking himself inwardly. Great going there Elliot. You're the man.

Eyes sneaking about in the dim light, he felt a bit like a burglar breaking into someone's house. Seeing there was already a chair, he sat next to the bed and studied its occupant. He seemed to be sleeping peacefully enough, though he would twitch every now and again—Elliot couldn't say whether this was normal or not. He didn't make a habit of breaking into people's houses to watch them sleep.

What he decided was _not_ normal was when the Asian psychiatrist's brow creased—giving him the appearance that he was either in pain or concentrating deeply—and he fisted his hands in the bedsheets. Elliot stood, suddenly ready to call the nurse, but stopped when he heard the other inhale sharply. Looking down, Elliot could see his eyes were open, but he wasn't truly looking at anything. It took him a moment to even notice Elliot was there. He blinked owlishly at the Irishman, rubbing his eyes.

"Elliot. I'm sorry... I didn't realize you were there," he said quietly.

"...hullo," Elliot managed to force out.

"It's half past one in the morning... is something wrong?" George asked, still rubbing sleep from his eyes as he attempted to analyze Elliot.

"No, uh... I mean I know I didn't come in earlier 'cuz I said I didn't want you to feel uncomfortable and all, but, y'know... it's been bugging me," Elliot admitted, scratching the back of his neck.

"...but at this hour?"

Elliot grumbled, sinking into his chair and George couldn't help but crack a smile, if only a small one.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean it quite like that. I just thought you'd be at home by now," George stated.

"As if I could sleep," Elliot said, picking at a stray thread on his coat. "I dunno, Doc... I just feel that... maybe... I should apologize. Or something. I dunno."

"...Elliot what happened had nothing to do with you," George stated calmly. "Just because you happen to know me doesn't mean it's your fault any more than it is when you don't know the victim."

Elliot digested this. "Still, I mean... I know I give you a hard time sometimes... Not like I ever wanted this to happen."

George could see he wouldn't be dissuaded. "Apology accepted. You can stop beating yourself up, now."

Elliot allowed the conversation lull into an uncomfortable silence. He couldn't just write off that nagging feeling with an "apology accepted," could he? No, it still didn't feel right. It would continue not feeling right until they caught the perp, he decided. So until then, he would watch George like a bulldog and leave no stone unturned. Excessive? Maybe. But he needed something to fill up that empty space in his heart... Soul crushing labor should do it.

"You should go back to sleep," he said suddenly.

"Excuse me?" George said, looking surprised.

"I said you should go back to sleep. I woke you up," Elliot reaffirmed.

"I'm fine. I'm more concerned with the fact that something seems to be bothering you," George replied with an even stare.

"For Christ's sake, Doc," Elliot grumbled. "I don't get you. I don't. Really. Any other person would be in tears if they'd gone through what you've been through. How can you just sit there and ask about my problems? What's wrong with you?"

Elliot knew immediately he'd pushed too far. The psychiatrist's gaze hardened ever so slightly as he shook his head.

"What do you want me to do Elliot? Would you rather I break down in tears and tell you how awful, painful and mortifying it was? People have different ways of dealing with things... leave me to mine," he said lowly.

"Would I like to hear it? Honestly... yeah. It'd be a hell of a lot better than your apathy," Elliot admitted.

George stared at him, searching for something. Apparently not finding it, he lay back down and rolled onto his uninjured side. "I'm going back to sleep."

"All right. I'll be here."

George wondered what gods he had pissed off to deserve the company of Elliot Stabler.

* * *

Hooray, chapter two is finished! At... four-thirty in the morning... Urgh. Sleep sounds good. Obviously I'm drawing this out. They're not going to be slobbering all over each other in chapter two being all "gimme yer booty." Nah, this'll take a while. Which I kind of like. Hopefully I didn't botch up any of the characters too horribly, either. Sometimes that happens at four in the morning. My writing style can change, depending on what time it is and how many episodes of Law & Order I was able to watch. Reviews are lovely, as always, flames are donated to the Harry Potter set. They're using more fire these days... and less Remus. D: 


	3. Chapter III: Coup d'état

I was just thinking about something in regards to writing... It is much easier to pull the strings when you are the Puppet Master. When writing an original story, you alone decide the fates of those you write about. They dance to the pull of your strings. You can make them as fantastic and imaginative as you wish, though, their dance may not be appealing to others. Writing fanfiction is much different. You are no longer the Puppet Master, but rather, have control over a few strings under his watchful eye. It is simple to take those strings and pervert them; make them into something they were never meant to be, to dance in a way they should not. The strings will bend for you easily enough, but people will be turned away. You must adhere to the dance already laid out for them. If you manage to do so, the dance is calculated and beautiful. However, if you try try to remain within the dance, and end up pushing them to a dance that is not their own...

The strings snap.

I broke a few strings last chapter, and I have only my impatience and pride to blame. I was so pleased that anyone had bothered to read my story that I was eager to get another chapter out quickly. How easily I forget that my writing suffers when I'm impatient and overconfident. -bops herself on the head-

So! My sincerest apologies for the awkwardness of the last chapter. I shall go back and revise it shortly. In the meantime, I will put forth my best efforts to avoid snapping any more strings. Thank you to all those who reviewed and were patient with me.

**J0:** Nice to see you back! I was actually picturing Severus Snape (Harry Potter) when describing that child you picked out. As far as Elliot's "head banging," I suppose I let a little of my own personality leak into his. Which is bad. I've been stuck in roleplay mode, thinking of how I might respond in a given situation, so I need to kick myself out! Well, at least I got George's part right. I was a tad worried it would seem too... emo, frankly. But I'm glad it was met with satisfaction. I'm hoping to send the two through some ups and downs before anything's settled, because apparently I enjoy torturing them. Hopefully, I won't botch it up too horribly.

**AllAboutTheWriting:** Ha, feel free to swamp my inbox with messages telling me to update. I'm happy to know you're enjoying it. Hmm, yes, I had a bit of difficulty between Elliot and Olivia. I wanted to be able to show that they were closer (because they do get closer over time) without Elliot completely pushing her away and saying, "Sorry, babe, I'm gay." if you know what I mean. That secene was the result. And now, it continues to bug me, even in my sleep. It shall be fixed! -ashamed over her writing booboo- Thank you for coming back though! I'll try not to disappoint you.

**laurahalvey:** Well, hello again! My, I'm absolutely flattered. You should be careful, my ego might swell to dangerous proportions... -laughs- All joking aside, thank you very much for taking the time to read and leave a review. I'm glad you're enjoying it.

Thank you very much to all of you. You have no idea how much your comments are appreciated. And please excuse my pseudo-philosophical rant up there. I had a "moment." Or something.

* * *

**DISCLAIMER:** I do not own Law & Order: Special Victims Unit, as stated previously. This does not mean, however, that I will not continue to waste further Birthday Wishes in attempting to change that.

* * *

Chapter III: Coup d'état 

Elliot rubbed at his eyes in an attempt to discourage them from closing. He was researching a new lead, but that wasn't the cause of it. No, it was George's "replacement." Cragen didn't seem the least bit happy about it, but as he'd explained to them all, they still needed a profile to work off of. The Captain had literally barred George from returning to work, despite the psychiatrist's insistence that he was able to, which landed them with the fruitcake standing before them.

Harold Kramer. He had a nasally voice that wasn't quite nasally enough for you to be outright annoyed, but just enough for you to be given an unexplainable sense of dislike when you were around him. He seemed interested only in his profiling and was often short with the squad members, causing Fin to toss one or two colorful remarks behind his back.

All right, so fruitcake might be pushing it, but he sometimes wondered if the guy knew his hypothalamus from his gluteus maximus.

The investigation seemed to be going nowhere, or rather, in circles. A new lead would always lead them back to an old one, which would inevitably lead to a dead end. Then a new lead and the cycle continued.Three days worth of questioning and they had little to show for it. Based off of what he'd heard from any colleagues or former classmates, George was not an unlikable guy, he decided. Trying a different approach, he opted to consider what made the other man seem so off-putting in the first place. That _smirk_, was one thing. It was one thing to simply be able to smirk, it was entirely another to have a specific smirk; one that you could practically patent to yourself.

"Any luck, El?" Olivia asked, looking across from her desk.

"None," Elliot replied abysmally. "Two of 'em are out of the country for some conference and the other one is six feet under."

"Well, I've got something to brighten your day. You'll recall our friend Doctor Cunningham?" Olivia questioned.

Elliot snorted loudly.

"I'll take that as a yes. Well, as it turns out, there is an old emergency exit in the basement of our friend's apartment building. So old, in fact, that there are no security cameras on or around it. So old that none of the staff thought to mention it. And so old that its alarm has fallen into a state of disrepair," Olivia recited, tossing him a casual grin.

"Music to my ears, Liv, music to my ears," Elliot said. "But we've got nothing that actually places him _at_ the scene."

"Well, see now here's the funny part. There were some red-orange fibers found stuck to George's clothes," Olivia noted. "Apparently, they belong to an animal, most likely some kind of cat. But he doesn't own any pets and was with us the whole day."

"Ally cat?"

"Could be..."

"Except... we know someone who owns a cat. We know a _suspect_ who owns a cat," Elliot said, catching on.

"Do you still have your pants from that day?" Olivia asked hopefully.

"Yeah, I didn't get a chance to bring them to the cleaners. I spilled barbecue sauce all over them so I held off," Elliot noted amazedly. "Let's see if we can match any hairs. If we can, let's take another ride to see our good friend."

* * *

"Nice to see you again, Doctor Cunningham," Olivia greeted. 

"Detectives, I... wasn't expecting you," Cunningham said, looking between the two. "Something else I can help you with?"

"Actually, yeah. You can tell us why your finger prints were all over the emergency exit stashed in your basement," Elliot ground out. "The one you conveniently forgot to mention."

The doctor paled considerably, hands fumbling for his pockets. "I'm not sure I know what you're talking about."

"Really? So, what you're saying is... someone else left _your _fingerprints on that door?" Elliot said, eyebrows raised in mock surprise. "That's incredible."

"I already told you, I didn't do it," Cunningham said, voice wavering slightly.

"And _we_ already know you had motive and now opportunity," Olivia stated, eying the supply closet hopefully. "Not to mention the facilities."

"And wouldn't you know that just this morning, CSU matched some hairs at the scene to a cat. Your cat, as it were," Elliot said.

"My cat? When did you--"

"You allowed us to question the staff at your building, as you recall. Cute, little Izzy just happened to be loose and rubbed herself all over my partner's leg," Olivia said with a gleam of triumph in her eyes.

"You must know how much of a bitch cat hairs are to get off your clothes," Elliot said, reaching into his jacket pocket.

"You don't understand... I've been framed! You've got the wrong man!" Cunningham implored.

"If I had a nickel for every time I heard that..." Elliot mused, whipping out his handcuffs. "Kyle Cunningham, you are under arrest for the rape and assault of George Huang. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney..."

* * *

George Huang sighed, toweling off his still damp hair. After what had seemed like his twentieth shower in three days, he still couldn't shake the feeling of pervasiveness that loomed over him. He knew the feeling wasn't abnormal for someone in his... situation, but he couldn't help but feel troubled by it. As much as he told himself what he felt was normal, he couldn't help but feel ashamed for feeling it in the first place. It probably would be easier if he were completely apathetic about it, as Elliot had commented. He knew he played the part well enough. 

He just needed to get his head on straight. He didn't do self-pity.

Gently lowering himself to his couch, he winced slightly. The stitches in his side tugged painfully with most movement. He began shifting through the files on his coffee table; even if Cragen could ban him from going _into_ work, it didn't mean he could do a thing about him actually working. He was surprised how easily he could lapse back into working mode, making his careful observations and circling them in red sharpie. He felt more at ease already among his files and various medical books. He did not feel at ease when the phone rang. Frowning thoughtfully, he opted for answering it, rather than letting it go to his answering machine. He hated that thing anyway, seeing as it ate his messages.

"Huang," he said shortly.

"Doc? Hey, 's me," came he voice on the other line.

Elliot? He should have checked the caller ID. Smooth move, George. Remembering their last encounter, he wasn't entirely sure he had the patience to deal with the man at that moment. But he wasn't going to let him know that.

"Elliot, what can I do for you?" he asked politely.

"Well, here's the thing. We arrested a suspect," Elliot said.

"Oh, that's... great," he replied. He knew what was coming next.

"You don't seem to think so," Elliot noted.

Damn.

"No, I do. I'm just a bit surprised," George stated quickly.

"Yeah, well... we've got a good bit of evidence, but all the same, Casey wants you to come down for a voice recognition," Elliot said quickly; as though he were pulling off a band aid.

George didn't respond immediately. He was glad that they'd caught whoever it was, that much was certain. He just wasn't thrilled with the idea of having to listen to the man's voice again, whispering huskily about how he had it coming. But there was no way around it. He wasn't about to let it get the best of him.

"Doc? Are ya there?"

"Hmm? Yes, I'm here. I can be right over," George stated.

"Nah. Stay put. I'm coming to pick you up," Elliot said.

He stared blankly at his telephone as he heard a distinct click from the other line. The call had ended.

* * *

Elliot hammered on the door to George's apartment. He didn't mean to make it sound like he was coming with a warrant—that was just how he knocked. He heard a muffled call from inside, asking him to wait a moment. Sure enough, a moment later the door opened to reveal a relatively calm looking George. 

"I was just about to get my coat. Here, step inside for a minute," he said, turning already to retreat to his closet.

Elliot nodded mutely, watching him go. While he waited, he could help but let his eyes roam. The living area and kitchen were neat and tidy, without so much as a spoon out of place. It looked relatively un-lived in, save for the files and odd medical books cluttering the coffee table and a lone coffee mug; the contents of which he was sure must be stone cold. The place looked woefully vacant—the living quarters of a man who spent more than his fair share of sleepless nights at the office.

No sooner had he made this assessment than the man who occupied the space re-appeared. He frowned.

"Something's troubling you," he said. It was a statement, not a question.

"I was just thinking you could use a new interior decorator," Elliot quipped, flashing a short smirk.

"I know what you mean. I just never got around to doing much with the place," George commented.

It was a pathetic attempt on both parts to lighten the mood, but not much else could be done. They left the apartment, walking past the alley to get to Elliot's car. He noted thoughtfully that George didn't seem to pay too much attention or to little to the alley. He didn't glance at it, but he didn't shy away from it either. He just kept walking as though he hadn't noticed it. His actions were calm and calculated as always, something that continued not to bode well with Elliot.

"So... how ya been holdin' up, Doc?" he asked, after driving silently for some time.

"Well enough. And yourself?"

"Fine, fine."

"How is the McClellan case going?" George asked.

"Well enough. Munch 'n' Fin seem to think they're close on nailing someone for it. Her uncle... remember him?" Elliot asked.

"Yes, the one with the prosthetic leg," George stated.

"The very same," Elliot said. "I thought the guy seemed a few floors short of a story, if you know what I mean, but y'know..."

George nodded in understanding and the conversation lulled into an awkward silence. Elliot wracked his brain, trying to think of something to keep the psychiatrist talking. He didn't do these weird silences.

"They sent some guy to fill in for you," he said suddenly.

George didn't look surprised. "Oh, good. I was worried I was putting too much on all of you by being absent."

"Nah, I mean... well, here's the thing. Everybody hates the guy," Elliot said.

George smirked lightly. "I can recall most of you not being too fond of me when I began working with you."

Elliot grumbled out an annoyed response, slumping in his seat slightly and frowning. "Yeah, well, we got used to you."

"Right, so... you were saying?" George prodded.

"Yeah, this guy, Harold Kramer, he's strange. Keeps entirely to himself except to tell us what his profile is. Then he disappears again," Elliot said. "He reminds me of some kind of... bug. Or a mouse."

"What?" George half-laughed.

"He comes in, drops the profile, and scurries away. We're lucky we get an explanation out of him," Elliot said. "He may as well not be there at all, Kramer. He's uptight to boot."

"Well, perhaps he's never worked in Special Victims before," George noted. "Jumping into that kind of work would make anyone uptight."

"All the same, it doesn't give him the excuse to be an asshole about it," Elliot grumbled.

"Give it time. Perhaps he'll come around," George insisted.

"Yeah, yeah. I say the sooner he's out and you're in, the better," Elliot snorted.

"Well seeing as Don has barred me from returning for two weeks, it appears as though you'll be stuck with him," George replied.

"I feel like the kid who got the lousy substitute teacher..." Elliot snorted, voice dripping with sarcasm.

* * *

George watched as five different men filed in for the line-up, each holding a number card and dressed similarly. He was very familiar with the process by now, though he'd never thought he'd be on this particular side of it. He noted that one of the men, number four, was sporting a rather ugly bruise and a split lip. The psychiatrist's gaze traveled over to Elliot, who grinned impishly. 

_Cunningham twitched anxiously, fidgeting constantly in his seat. The seat itself had a wobbly leg and the florescent light overhead flickered eerily. The air conditioner seemed to be in over drive, sending the room into a frigid temperature and lending its aid to the already foreboding atmosphere. What seemed to be the worst part was the heavy gaze of Detective Elliot Stabler, who sat on the other side of the table, solid and unmovable as a boulder. Next to him was another Detective—John Munch, if he recalled correctly—and the fact that his eyes were hidden behind shades gave him an equally ominous look._

"_So, are... are you going to question me?" Cunningham asked._

"_Sure, why not?" Munch replied. "Can you possibly tell us why you were using that emergency exit in your building?"_

_Cunningham felt a knot rise in his throat and found he couldn't speak around it._

"_Or maybe you'd prefer to tell us how your cat's hairs got at the scene if you weren't there, as you said," Munch prodded further._

_Again he fell silent, staring at his hands as they lay folded in his lap. They were shaking. Elliot's smirk widened slightly as he leaned closer across the table._

"_Oh, come on now. You're the one who wanted us to ask you questions," he growled._

"_I already told you I didn't do it," Cunningham spat._

"_The evidence is not leaning favorably on your side, my friend," Munch noted._

"_Yes, b-but I was hoping that I would be able to clear my name in answering your questions," Cunningham sputtered._

"_This assumes that you are, in fact, answering them rather than sitting there looking like a constipated ferret," Munch informed him._

"_I can understand why you did it. You didn't like the fact that he was in your territory. So, you rape him, kick him a few times, maybe knife him just for good measure," Elliot recited._

"_That's disgusting! I told you, I_—_"_

_Elliot stood, slamming his hands down on the table. Cunningham clammed up immediately, attempting to shrink into his seat as the other loomed over him. His voice was low and laced with deadly intent. This was _not_ a man to piss off._

"_You listen to me, you self-righteous prick," Elliot hissed. "We've got evidence that places you at the scene, we can easily account for you leaving the building and you've got more than enough motive for you and your ego. Don't you dare sit there and lie to me."_

"_I-I'm not lying, I_—"

_He found himself suddenly silenced by Elliot's fist connecting with his jaw._

George tossed Elliot a reproachful glare, but the other merely gave Olivia and Fin the grinning equivalent of a high-five. Casey stood arguing with an attorney, Cragen overlooking them with either boredom or annoyance etched into his features. After some time—and shooting the attorney one last, sour glare—Casey walked over and stood next to him, glancing once at the line up.

"So... We'll be asking each of the men in the line up to repeat the—"

"I'm familiar with the proceedings," he informed her with a light smile.

"Right. Of course you are," Casey replied, looking slightly abashed over the whole thing. "All right, we'll start whenever you're ready."

He nodded, his quiet confirmation, and waited. One by one, the men would step forward and speak the same phrase: _You should've known something like this would happen._ As each said it, he dredged up his broken memories of the encounter and tried to place the voice. Ever since he'd heard it, it had been seared into his mind. Should he have known? Were there signs he'd missed? He frowned in concentration as the last of the men spoke and stepped back.

"Any of them sound familiar, Doctor?" Casey asked earnestly.

Elliot's face fell as the psychiatrist shook his head. "None."

* * *

Hopefully that wasn't as dreadful as the last chapter. Maybe I made them talk too much... Or maybe I was too quick with some scenes? Well, you guys can tell me. I actually just started watching "OZ" the other day. Seeing both B.D Wong and Chris Meloni, I had the amusing thought that, "Amazing! A pairing that can almost transcend series!" Because I'm deranged like that. Anyway, thanks very much for reading--and reviewing if you happen to--and I hope to see you again. 

Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition! o:


	4. Chapter IV: Castigation

Well, back again. Hmm. It's funny how I normally go about writing fanfiction... I'm not doin it with this one nearly as much as I thought I would. Ordinarilly, I'll spend three or even four days contemplating about my next moves, or moves in the future. I think about it constantly. And by constantly, I mean _constantly_. I even think about it in the shower and while I'm trying to sleep! I'm still doing that with this little one here, but only roughly. A lot of the stuff I'm writing is just sort of coming to me as I write. It feels a bit strange, considering my usual penchant for quiet reflection. Elliot's impulsiveness is rubbing off on me, methinks.

Anyway, thanks again to my lovely reviewers! I really appreciate the fact that some of you are taking the time to stick with me. I know I'm not the best (or the most reliable) author, so it helps a lot. I know it must seem strange to address each of you individually with each chapter, but I think it's an important factor in the author-reader relationship. Because face it people, the second you read this, we started a relationship. I'll be home around six, are you making that roast for dinner? The kids need to learn responsibility!

...I dunno. Obviously, I'm quite deranged, but you knew that. I'd ask George for help, but I don't think he'd be very sympathetic considering what I'm doing with this fic.

**psychotic KAT:** Welcome aboard! I'm glad you find it to be of interest to you.

**J0:** Ha, yeah, a lot of their conversations (the ones where Elliot's not pissed off, anyway) seem to follow that awkward guideline. As far as Cunningham... eh, I'm not saying either way. I know the cat thing seemed rushed, but only because I planned on using a couple of flashback/dreamsequences. I would have put them in earlier as actual scenes, but it disrupted my train of thought. I'll try and fix it up a bit, though. Believe me, I wanted so badly to have George give Elliot hell, but I'm holding out on that for now. I'm going to have Elliot push just a little longer. When I said they'd have ups and downs, I really meant it.

**AllAboutTheWriting:** Ah, well, thank you. I think. My pre- and post-ambles are generally just whatever's buzzing around in my head at the moment. I dunno. Like I said with J0, I really am sorry about how confusing it seemed. The flashbacks/dream sequences will definitely clear things up, as well as dropping a few clues. As far as the exchanges between the two, I really do try my hardest. I find myself hearing each characters voice in my mind as I'm writing. Does it sound like something they would say? Does it sound awkward? It helps (I think/hope!). I think you'll be... surprised as far as Cunningham. I'm not going to say whether or not he did it, only that you'll be surprised.

And now... I believe I should shut up.

* * *

**DISCLAIMER:** I do not own Law & Order: Special Victims Unit. I own seasons three and five on DVD, however. For some reason though, season four is not to be found anywhere. Not on eBay, not in Best Buy... Fushigi mystery!

* * *

**Chapter IV:** Castigation 

Elliot imagined this must have been what Cunningham felt like when he'd been socked. He glanced quickly at Casey, who opened her mouth to speak, but closed it immediately. She couldn't ask him, "Are you sure?" Cunningham's attorney attempted to hide his look of triumph behind one of sympathy. He failed miserably. Turning to Casey, he lifted his briefcase off the ground.

"Well, Miss Novak. I'd call most of your "evidence" circumstantial, at best, but feel free to try and bring it to court anyway," he said, moving swiftly for the exit.

They all stood for a moment, watching as those in the line up filed out of the other room. Elliot just couldn't understand it. Did George simply not recall the sound of the man's voice? He was shot up with some pretty heavy stuff, so it was possible, but... It just wasn't right.

"I'm sorry," George said suddenly. "I know that wasn't the answer you were looking for."

"No, it's just..." Casey started. "Look it... wasn't your fault. All right?"

Everyone could tell she was about to blow her top as she left the room, leaving them once again to that awkward silence. Olivia glanced at each of them in turn. They all looked partially agitated, save for George, who seemed eerily calm given the situation. Fin spoke up suddenly.

"Well... that other evidence is still somethin', right?"

"I don't think he did it," George replied.

"Oh, for Christ's sake, Doc," Elliot ground out. "We have all the other evidence that says he did."

"Which Casey doesn't seem to be too happy to go to court with. Chances are likely she'll have the floor mopped with her," Cragen noted.

"Not to mention his attorney will make note of how you could have compromised the line up," George added.

Elliot almost did a double take. "Hold up... You think I jeopardized the case?"

"I never said that," George replied smoothly. "I just have to wonder why you would beat a suspect on mere suspicion."

"Because he did it," Elliot retorted childishly.

"But you don't know that. Elliot, you could get in a lot of trouble whether he did or did not do it," George informed him heatedly. "You can't go around taking your frustrations out on whatever suspect happens to be available!"

Elliot gawked, hardly believing what he'd just heard. Obviously he wasn't always keeping his anger in check, but George made it sound as though he took a swing at whoever happened to be close by. Here he was, trying to defend the guy, and only got shot down in the process. Any negative feeling he'd ever had for the psychiatrist buzzed painfully in the corner of his mind.

"I know he did it. And I hit him because he's a sick fuck and I hate the fact that this had to happen," Elliot growled. "Anyone who lays so much as a finger on anyone in our squad is asking for it."

"I understand that. I just don't want to see you turn this into another of your crusades," George said evenly. "You need to realize just when it's gone too far and _step back_."

"Would you knock off the bullshit for once? I'm sick of you trying to be such a fucking saint over this," Elliot spat.

"El, lay off," Olivia chided.

"Yeah, man. You're gonna bust an artery if you keep at it," Fin said, placing himself between George and Elliot.

"What, you think I'm gonna hit 'im, Fin?" Elliot asked with a derisive snort.

"I don't know _what_ you're going to do, but it's becoming painstakingly obvious that you can't handle this case," Cragen said. "I want you off. You'll assist Munch with the McClellan case and Fin will take over with Olivia."

Elliot deflated momentarily as he processed this bit of information, before turning beet red. He only just managed to grunt the word, "Fine," before storming out of the room, slamming the door behind him, knocking the blinds off in the process.

"He's lucky I didn't send him home," Cragen sighed, shaking his head.

* * *

Elliot paced furiously in the crib between the bunks, trying to restrain the urge to hit something. He wanted to, dearly, but doing that would only prove George right. He didn't want to grant him the satisfaction. How was it that they'd all seemed to turn on him suddenly? Surely they wanted to see that bastard Cunningham locked away as much as he did. That was justice... wasn't it? 

It all just burned him up. But worst of all was seeing that look on the psychiatrist's face. Was he really so passive that he would sit back and allow this to happen? No one possessed that level of calm. No one. Elliot knew it had to be eating him up inside... chances were, he was likely just too proud to show it. He hated shrinks. He hated rapists.

He hated being angry.

Pummeling the wall allowed him to lull into a sense of security. As his fists hammered into it in an almost rhythmic fashion, he was able to forget why he was angry in the first place, the pain numbing everything else. Panting, he gave it one last slug for good measure before seating himself on one of the bunks. He inspected his hands. The knuckles were torn and bloody and they shook.

"All set?"

He looked up slowly. George was standing by the door frame, though the door itself was closed. He regarded Elliot patiently.

"Maybe," Elliot replied stiffly.

"Let me take a look, then," George said. He lifted up the First Aid kit in his right hand.

"I dunno, Doc. I might decide to hit you," Elliot scoffed.

"No, you won't," George said simply, already pulling a chair over. He smirked. "Besides, if Don sees your hands all bloodied, you'll be joining me in exile."

Elliot mused over this. It might be true, he decided, but he wasn't going to admit it. Grunting, he made no move to stop the other as he opened the First Aid kit. The psychiatrist dampened the gauze with antiseptic and began cleaning the cuts with a gentle, precise motion. He did not look up at Elliot.

"So. Care to tell me why you're taking this so personally?" George asked.

"Hn?" Elliot grunted questioningly.

"Let's be perfectly honest, Elliot... you and I have been butting heads for years," George said.

"Yeah. So?" Elliot questioned.

"I just find it strange that you would suddenly become so zealous over this case," George replied.

"I already said anyone who messes with us is gonna get messed up," Elliot informed him.

"Yes, you did say that. But I'm inclined to think that's not the exact reason," George said. "Now, before you get upset—"

Elliot had bristled at his words, but managed to stifle his opinions until George finished.

"—let me explain. I don't think you even know it. I work with Special Victims, that's a fact. Because of this, I work alongside people you care about, like Olivia, for instance. The reason this has got you so riled up is not so much because it was me who was attacked, but rather because when you think about it, you imagine someone like Olivia, or John or Fin in my place. And that is what makes you angry. There is a special bond between you and them, making it painful to imagine that something like that could very well happen to them."

George paused slightly, leaning over to grab the bandage roll.

"Which is why I don't want to see you pushing yourself over this. Yes, whoever did it has to be brought to justice, but there is no need to lose your head. I know you're in a difficult place right now, with your wife and kids... but trying to tough it out through work isn't an answer," George said calmly. "All right? So don't trouble yourself needlessly. Put it on the back burner if you need to, let Fin and Olivia handle it. You need to step back."

Elliot sat a moment, pondering this. It wasn't true at all, he decided. It couldn't be. "Christ, you really know how to make a guy feel like a heartless bastard."

"That wasn't my intention at all."

"All the same, you do," Elliot said. He stared at George levelly. "My turn to play shrink."

"All right, go ahead," George said, wrapping the bandage.

"Why do you pretend this is okay? I know it's buggin' you," Elliot said. "It pisses me off."

"I can assure you, I'm not pretending anything in order to piss you off," George said.

"Then could you for once turn the shrink switch off?" Elliot grunted, watching him finish wrapping the bandage and lean back in is seat. "You're tryin' to analyze yourself."

"That's true, I have been trying to analyze myself. That's just my nature. It's my job. So, when I'm involved in circumstances that are usually my job, I can't help but do so," George informed him.

"Yeah, but how can you stay calm about it? I've seen everything, all types in your situation... all of 'em break down at some point. You can't sit there and tell me it doesn't bother you," Elliot said.

"Well, I never said it didn't bother me, did I?" George asked.

"No. Look, you're always tellin' me that I'm angry 'cuz I keep stuff bottled up, right?" Elliot said. "So what happens to you when you keep stuff bottled up, Doc?"

"I can't really say. I just know I have my own way of dealing with this. If I were to break down or become a social recluse over it, that would be the opposite of progress," George stated, with a light smile. "It does bother me, I'm not afraid to admit it. However, I've already come to terms with the fact that it's happened. And that it can't be changed. In time, I'll move past it."

Elliot leaned back slightly. Not outright admitting or denying anything, it seemed the psychiatrist was just going to run him in circles. As usual. He needed some show of emotion, however slight, to assure him that George wasn't going to shut down completely. Like George had said, they'd been butting heads for a while now, so he'd be damned if he let the psychiatrist bow out now. Nodding once he got up, walking to the door, motioning for George to follow.

"C'mon, I'll drive you home," he stated.

Packing up the First Aid kit, he followed out of the precinct, thankful that the Detective's anger had been subdued, if only for a short while.

* * *

The ride back was quiet, mainly for the reason that George had dozed off moments after they started driving. It was unusual to say the least. Elliot, at one point or another, had seen all of his co-workers sleeping. That was what the crib was for, right? But George never used the crib. So it was a peculiarity to see the other—elbow resting on the car door, and chin resting in hand—sleeping soundly. The fact that he appeared to be only pausing momentarily to think, rather than actually being asleep, was all the more strange. 

Reaching the apartment building, the Detective parked and removed the keys from the ignition. Sitting there, he suddenly felt he didn't have the heart to wake the other, but bore no desire to carry him up three flights of stairs either. Reaching out, he shook him lightly by the shoulder.

Immediately Elliot knew something was wrong. At the mere contact, he felt the psychiatrist's body stiffen as he jolted awake, jerking his head around to look to Elliot. He sighed lightly, rubbing at his eyes with both hands.

"I'm sorry, you startled me," George apologized.

George certainly had been surprised, that much was certain. But Elliot had seen it. It flickered only briefly in those dark, thoughtful eyes, but Elliot was sharp. Hidden beneath his surprise was something else: fear.

"Nah, don't worry about it, Doc. I shouldn't have startled you," Elliot said.

"I shouldn't have fallen asleep in the first place," George retorted.

"Yeah, well, maybe you needed it," Elliot noted with a grin.

"Right," George said, shaking his head. He did not smile. "I appreciate what you've been trying to do Elliot."

"Guess I'm not such a heartless bastard after all, huh?"

"No. I never said or thought you were," George said, exiting the car. "Good luck with the McClellan case, I'll see you..."

When? Tomorrow? When he got back to work? In hell?

"...I'll see you."

"Sure you don't want me to walk you up?" Elliot asked.

"No. No, I'm fine, thank you," George replied.

"All right. I'll see you around, Doc," Elliot said, mustering up another grin.

The psychiatrist returned it, but with such a lack of spirit that it made Elliot feel guilty for grinning in the first place. He watched the other disappear through the entry to the apartment building. Reaching his apartment, George slumped onto his couch, head in his hands. Outside, Elliot punched the dashboard of his car. Neither moved for a long while.

* * *

An undetermined amount of time later—though, it must have been a good few hours, judging by the fact that the sun had gone down—George awoke to a pounding noise. At first, he thought it might just be thunder, as it was now raining quite heavily, but he soon realized the pounding was coming from his door. He winced slightly as he stood from the couch—he'd slept on his bad side, apparently, due to the way it ached. 

A bit hesitantly, he leaned against the door and asked who it was. Hearing the muffled reply, his expression turned to confusion and he lifted the latch of the door. Opening it, he was greeted by the sight if a sopping wet Elliot Stabler.

"Elliot, what happened?" he asked, immediately concerned. "Did your car break down or something?"

"Or something is more like it," Elliot said with a wonky smile.

George shook his head, quickly ushering the other in and closing the door behind him. Scooting away momentarily, he returned with a large towel, which Elliot accepted gratefully. They both took a seat on the couch, despite the fact that Elliot was dripping wet.

"Elliot, please tell me what happened," George implored, eyes dark with concern.

"Nothin', Doc, I just..." Elliot mumbled, rubbing at his head furiously with the towel. "Well, you should really have someone watchin' the place."

George quirked an eyebrow, a smirk playing on his lips. "I already said I didn't need anyone watching me. I dismissed the officer assigned to, if you recall."

"Which is exactly why I'm here," Elliot informed him.

"You're not even on the case any more," George pointed out.

"So?"

"So, you shouldn't be wasting your time with something so inconsequential. You have that little girl to think about," George reasoned.

"God dammit, Doc, just because I can be a prick with a short fuse and you can be an insufferable know it all, I'm not allowed to be worried that you're running yourself into the fucking ground?" Elliot ground out.

Any hint of his former smirk disapeared in an instant. The Detective noted how very tired the psychiatrist suddenly looked.

"Elliot, I can't do this right now," George said quietly.

"Well, you're going to have to do it _sometime!_" Elliot fumed.

"Do _what_?" George snapped.

"That," Elliot replied. "Get angry."

"I'm not going to get angry just because you want me to, for whatever reason," George said. He had calmed, but his voice was still laced with agitation.

"I have a feeling you'll feel better if you do," Elliot assured him. "Come on, it's not like you haven't been angry with me before. Gimme your best shot."

"I already said I wasn't going to," George repeated.

"Then I'll sit here until you do," Elliot prodded. "C'mon."

"No."

"C'mon, c'mon, what's stoppin' ya?"

"Elliot—"

"Go on, yell at me."

"Please, I'm just—"

"_Do it_."

"You don't under—"

"Come _on!_"

"I _said_ no," George said. He drew a deep breath, letting it out in a slow hiss, running a hand through his hair. "Just stop."

"Why?" Elliot prodded.

"Why not?" George asked. "You're doing just what I told you not to earlier today. You haven't stepped back. You just keep pushing, Elliot. There is only so far that you can push. Only so far that those around you are willing to be pushed."

Elliot wondered how, whenever he came at George like this, the psychiatrist managed to turn it around. To manipulate the conversation until he was going into another lecture. But then, based on George's words, Elliot had to wonder... Exactly how far was the he willing to be pushed? He shrugged lightly.

"All right then," he replied simply.

"Thank you," George sighed standing. "You're welcome to stay the night if you need to. There's a pillow and blankets in the closet here, and the bathroom is just down the hall. I'm going to bed."

Elliot watched him slip down the hallway and heard the slight click of a door shutting. Well it wasn't like he was going to sleep anyway, right? Folding his arms over his chest, he watched the rain streak down the window pane, illuminated dully by a flickering street light.

_

* * *

_

"_Hi, I'm Detective Benson and this is my partner Detective Stabler," Olivia informed him, badges flashed and back in their coat pockets in an instant. "We'd like to question the staff here about a case we're working on."_

"_Oh, right. Doc Cunningham said you were coming," the boy said. "My name's Wesley Garbin. Just call me Wes, or Wise Guy, though. Everybody does."_

"_All right Wes, could you tell us where we could find most of the staff?" Elliot queried._

"_Yeah, sure, uh... well, Mister Dupoin lives in the house next door with his family. Maria—she's in charge of the cleaning staff—she'd be around the third floor at this time of the day. Mister Richards—he's the janitor and maintenance man—is probably in his office here on the first floor. Maria should be able to tell you where any other of her girls are," Wes explained._

"_That's great, thanks," Elliot said._

_Walking over to the elevator, he jabbed at the button more forcefully than was really necessary, but he was a dog hot on the trail of a fox. Olivia cast a worried glance at her partner as the doors closed and the elevator started upward with a sudden jerk. A tune played quietly in the background; some old fifties band who's name was just out of reach._

"_Look, El, I'm up in arms over this the same as you, but we gotta remember to keep our heads," Olivia said. "We can't afford to mess this one up or get it thrown out on a technicality."_

"_Yeah. Yeah, I know," Elliot admitted._

_The elevator stopped with another sudden jerk and the doors slid open, releasing the two Detectives it had held captive. As they whisked down the carpeted hallway, they could see a woman in a white apron at the end, batting furiously at an overhanging lamp with a feather duster. Its feathers were an obscene shade of pink that seemed to burn holes in Elliot's eyes as he watched it scurry across the light fixture. As they approached, the woman gave them a polite smile, continuing with her work._

"_Are you Maria?" Olivia asked._

"_Yeah, that's me. Somethin' I can do to help, Detectives?" Maria answered in a thick Latino accent._

"_How'd you know we were detectives?" Elliot asked suspiciously._

"_You swagger like cops, but you don't got the look of a couple of assholes," Maria informed them._

"_Thanks, I think... So, you probably already know we'll be asking you some questions," Olivia said._

"_Sure, I don't mind. Just so long as you don't mind following me. This damn place doesn't clean itself," Maria noted._

"_Not a problem. We won't take up any more of your time than is necessary," Elliot said. "Now, what can you tell us about Doctor Cunningham?"_

"_Honestly?"_

"_Honestly."_

"_Well, honestly, he's a bit of an _asqueroso_," Maria said. "You know, your typical New York doctor with enough ego for the entire apartment complex."_

"_I see. And can you—"_

_Elliot staggered slightly as something bolted into him at around shin level. Looking down, he saw a rather large Tabby Cat entwining itself around his legs, rubbing onto his leg and purring. Maria sighed loudly._

"_Ay, ay, ay... _estupido gato siempre esta cojoneando conmigo_," Maria grumbled, already swinging her duster at the cat. "Get! Get out of here!"_

_The cat quickly turned tail and bolted down the hallway, Maria sending a stream of curses after it. Shaking her head and muttering, she looked back to the detectives, pushing dark lochs out of her eyes._

"_That's his cat, Izzy. Sorry about your pants, all that hair's gonna be a pain to get off," Maria said. "Stupid cat is always getting out..."_

Elliot jerked slightly and opened his eyes, closing them immediately as a beam of early morning sun hit them. Squinting until he was able to adjust, he quickly looked down at his legs. No cat. Right, he was just dreaming about going to Cunningham's apartment. Which meant he fell asleep. Shit.

"Stupid cat, huh?" he murmured softly.

"I don't know about cats, but there's coffee here if you'd like a cup."

He twisted to look back over the couch and was greeted by the sight of George in the apartment's small pantry. The Detective wondered vaguely if the psychiatrist had been expecting him to fall asleep all the while. Rubbing the back of his neck, he suddenly remembered he had to go into work. Frantically, he looked for the clock.

"You're not late, not by a long shot," George assured him.

4:53 AM.

"Guess not," Elliot answered. "I think I'll take you up on that offer."

"Light no sugar?"

"You know, it should be a crime to know so monotonous a detail," Elliot stated flatly.

"I'll take that as a yes," George said.

The psychiatrist walked over, handing Elliot a mug before taking his own and sitting in a chair near the coffee table. Taking a quick swig, he picked up one of the many files scattered there and began analyzing it, taking in every detail. Curious, Elliot sifted through the files. George made no complaint. After a minute of this, Elliot looked up.

"So, you're still working on each of the cases?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Even though we've got Kramer filling in for you," Elliot ventured.

"It keeps my mind occupied," George stated, not looking up. "And if I noted anything of interest, I could always fax it to you at the precinct if need be."

Elliot nodded appreciatively. For most of the members of Special Victims, work didn't end at punch out like everyone else.

"Have you seen your family lately?" George asked suddenly.

Elliot pondered the meaning of this question. "I... saw Maureen, my oldest, a couple'a days ago. Why?"

"I'm just wondering," George replied. "You miss them, don't you."

Again, it was a statement, not a question. Elliot nodded mutely. He did. He often missed them so much it hurt. Ever since he had signed those divorce papers... He pushed the thoughts aside as he stared into his coffee cup.

"What about you, Doc? You gotta have family, right?" Elliot asked.

"Yes, I have family. My sister is in China on business, though I spoke to my mother a few nights ago," George stated.

"No dad in the picture?"

"No, he's there. He just didn't wish to speak to me at the time," George stated.

"He sounds like a prick," Elliot snorted.

"He's just old fashioned," George informed him. "To his generation, the thought of a man being raped is outlandish."

Elliot pulled a face, clearly in disagreement with this. It wasn't outlandish to him, but he supposed the other was right. He knew his old man would probably think the same thing. Then again, Elliot was larger and better built than George, so he couldn't see it happening in the first place. He shifted and looked to his watch, rising.

"I'd better get going. I wanna change before I head into work," Elliot said aloud.

"All right. I appreciate you spending the night. I know I didn't seem to at the time," George said, finally looking up.

"No problem," Elliot said. He paused with the door open looking thoughtful. "I'll give you a heads up if Liv and Fin make any kinda break in the case."

"I'd appreciate that, thank you," George said with a brief smile.

Nodding his head in a goodbye, Elliot slipped out the door, shutting it behind him. As he got into his car, he couldn't help but feel a bit nagged. Something about his dream had bothered him. There was something he should be remembering about that day... but what was it? Well... it'd come to him in a bit, right?

* * *

Now I feel like even more of a bitch for writing this. I was on YouTube watching the Infanity interviews with the SVU cast. They're all such a lively, funny bunch. I almost felt the need to apologize for ruthlessly hashing their characters. Between Chris contemplating calling Mariska to help him out of a speeding ticket using her Emmy-Award-Winning-ness and B.D. talking with Diane about free pants... I was in stitches.

On a seperate note, Father Mukada got the shit beaten out of him. I can see the guards... but the _priest?!_ -continues watching OZ-

As far as the Spanish phrases I used this chapter, the first meant "asshole" and the second roughly translates to "stupid cat is always fucking with me." I know, my language is atrocious, but to make it realistic, I must use the colorful vocabulary that 99 percent of New York citizens utilize. And again, I'm hoping I haven't botched things too horribly.


	5. Chapter V: Commination

Argh. Sorry for the rather late update, guys. First of all, I had schooling to take care of (currently studying the nervous system in Anatomy and Physiology!), Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows to read (Okay, that one isn't much of an excuse considering I finished it in a day), and friggin' Comcast. Get this, they come to install Comcast Digital Voice, which is cheaper and bundles our bill together rather neatly. In order to do so, they had to put in a new modem. Well, wouldn't you know that when they left, I found that they totally screwed up our internet connection! My mum called them back and it to them day to call us back and get here to fix it. I've never had a problem with Comcast before, but this one rather irked me. I mean, I have a lot of respect for the working man, but this was disappointing.

Anyway, enough of my bitching. If I were to go one you'd have to suffer through my rant about my brother being near homophobic. -rolls eyes- Thanks once more to my lovely reviewers! We're getting closer to some really interesting things going down, I can assure you. The ideas have been stewing in my head for ages.

**AllAboutTheWriting:** Yes, I do tend to update rather late at night. I find I can write better at this time, only because of the solitude. Ideas start flowing and what-not. As far as the word "prick," well, I've seen Elliot use it a number of times... so it stuck. Yes, I see what you mean about Elliot's clingy-ness. I suppose that for me, I was always able to see him get defensive and... sort of _gravitate_ towards certain victims. I actually can't wait to write that scene either... I've been contemplating a few choice phrases for George to throw at Elliot. ;D

**J0:** Well, we all need to pound the hell outta something at some point, I guess. And it's always good to have someone there to patch up the boo-boos (physical or mental) afterwards. I myself loved that particular scene, only because, as you said, there's something strangely intimate about dressing someone's wounds. Not outright, mind you, but subtly and tastefully. As for the title, well... I had originally penned this chapter as the one where George lets Elliot have it, but decided to wait... so I forgot to change the title (Mostly because I'm a moron.). I totally agree about the rain bringing out his soft side. There's just something about showing up on someone doorstep soaking wet that really gets to me... then again, I'm a hopeless romantic. Yeah, I like to try and throw a little of that chit-chat in there, as we do know so very little about George. It's insanely fun to write as well, but you probably already knew that.

**POPpop:** Here's a new face! Welcome aboard. I'm glad you're enjoying it so far, because I'm enjoying writing it.

**Syndromia:** Hello, there! Thank you for taking the time to send me a message. There seemed to have been some technical difficulties (i.e. I don't know what the hell happened) with the fic. Not only could you not access it, but neither could I. I kept getting the message that my story "didn't exist." But it's back! So... as far as male rape, I confess my limited knowledge in the area. Most of it comes from Law & Order and some sparse reading, but I will gladly take your advice and research the topic further. As far as George being too calm, well... hmm. I suppose that's just the way I have the guy pegged. Don't worry, he'll be showing quite a bit of emotion in later chapters.

* * *

**DISCLAIMER: **I do not own Law & Order: Special Victims Unit. I do own Kyle Cunningham, Laurel Cunningham, William Cunningham, Harold Kramer, Halley Wordsworth, Logan Freeman, Charles Yates and Anthony Carter, however. But they're only plot bunnies. Run, little bunnies, run!

* * *

**Chapter V:** Commination

Elliot cursed as he hurried toward his desk, casting brief glances at his watch. He hadn't counted on the traffic when he went to change his clothes, thus accounting for his current state of tardiness. Olivia offered him a rather flustered look as he approached, slinging his jacket over his seat. Fiddling with a pen between her index and middle fingers, she waited for some kind of explanation. Seeing she wasn't about to get one without some prompting, she leaned forward, scooting her chair closer to the other.

"Where've you been?" Olivia asked him.

"...traffic," he muttered simply.

She regarded him uncertainly for a moment. "Did you turn your cell off yesterday? Or were you just ignoring me?"

"What?" Elliot said, incredulously. Reaching to his side, he snatched up his cell phone and flipped it open, the LED panel displaying the message that he had five missed calls. "Oh. Jesus, the friggin' storm must've done wonders for the service on this thing. Sorry, Liv, I wasn't ignoring you. Any particular reason why you tried to call me five times?"

He grinned in an obscenely sweet way, causing her to roll her eyes and bat at him with a manila folder.

"I just wanted to make sure you and George were all right," Olivia informed him.

"Hmm? Oh, after I dropped him off, yeah. Yeah, I'd say so," Elliot replied.

"Well, that's good. I'm sure it'll do Dad's heart good to see his boys getting along," Olivia said, voice dripping with sarcasm as she used their pet name for the Captain.

"Well, well, how kind of you to grace us with your presence this morning," John said, appearing with Fin.

"I was feeling considerate today," Elliot said thoughtfully.

"If you're still feeling kind, we've gotta go pick up McClellan. You know, Mister Peg-Leg-Pedo?" John pressed.

Elliot stood with a smirk playing on his lips, beginning to follow. "Now, that's not very nice, John. The man's handicapped."

"Very true. But 'Mister Handicapped-Pedo' doesn't have nearly as nice a ring to it," John said sympathetically, shaking his head as they exited.

Olivia and Fin watched the two go before thinking about their own work. Casey needed stronger evidence on Cunningham if she wanted a snowball's chance in hell of convicting him, which meant a lot of work ahead of them. She had little clue of where else to look. Fin grunted agitatedly as someone else entered the room.

Harold Kramer entered the room, blonde hair slicked back as usual with nary a hair out of place. His fiery hazel eyes skimmed about the room from behind his angular spectacles. Frowning, he tapped his folder lightly in his hand before making his way toward Olivia and Fin, both sighing inwardly but showing no such disposition outwardly.

"I'm sorry to interrupt you, but have Detectives Munch and Stabler already left?" Kramer asked.

Olivia frowned deeply. Not so much at his question, but at the tone in which it was given. His voice completely lacked the nasally quality it had possessed since he'd arrived. Noticing her staring, he cracked a lopsided smile.

"Not so nasally now, is it? My allergies have died down, somewhat. They really flare in this season," he mentioned, readjusting his glasses.

"Oh, right. Well, yeah, you just missed them. They went to pickup McClellan," Olivia managed to inform him.

"Pity, I hoped to give them a bit of advice before they had done so," Kramer said, looking genuinely upset. "Well, how is your case building?"

"Fine enough," Fin intoned.

"Hmm. I see. Well, if you should need any assistance, I would be glad to offer it," Kramer informed them brightly, though his tone dampened slightly at what he said next. "It is unfortunate, it is. Shocking. I have known Kyle for many years, and to think he would do something like this... An injustice to the field of Psychiatry, if there ever was one."

Fin offered him a look of flat-out impatience. "Yeah. Right. We've got a lot of work to do, so unless you had something you needed to say...?"

"Oh, right, my apologies. I shouldn't have disturbed you. However, I do suggest you speak to Doctor Cunningham's ex-wife. They may be separated, but I wouldn't place it below him to send any... _evidence_ her way," Kramer said, already turning away again.

The two watched him leave, neither moving for a moment amidst all the bustle and noise around them. After what seemed like an eternity, Fin broke the silence by voicing exactly what Olivia had been thinking.

"What the hell was that all about?"

"I dunno. Turned a new leaf?" Olivia said with a shrug.

"I still don't like him either way," Fin insisted. "A few pretty words can't make up for a few days worth of being an ass."

"Still, questioning his ex again might not be such a bad idea. Especially if we have something specific to go on," Olivia noted.

"Guess you're right. If we don't, we'll end up on the wrong end of Casey's baseball bat..." Fin said, rolling his eyes.

* * *

Elliot found himself distracted as he leaned in the corner of the interview room with his arms crossed, the shadows giving him a strangely savage look as he narrowed his eyes in concentration. There was still something about that tape he needed to see, he was positive. Either he'd have a run at it himself, or he'd inform Olivia and Fin to... no. No, he'd have to do it himself. They wouldn't know what to look for. Hell, _he_ didn't know what to look for.

"I've told you a million times. I would never hurt my niece," McClellan said.

"Right. Well, considering you're the only one of the suspects that could have given her gonorrhea, I'm having a real hard time believing you," Munch informed him.

McClellan shifted uncomfortably, hie eyes traveling to Elliot and back to the table. He glanced sidelong at Munch. "Listen, that guy... he's giving me the creeps."

"Good," Elliot intoned heavily. "Because you gave your niece a hell of a lot more than the creeps."

"It's time to fess up. You've seen what we've got against you and there's no way out," Munch added.

"...I wanna speak to my lawyer," McClellan concluded, eyes cast downward at some imaginary spot on the table.

* * *

George looked between the two sets of crime scene photos laid before him. They were stunningly similar, almost to an obsessive point. Victims were nearly the same weight, height and race. They shared similar looks. Both were splayed spread eagle with their clothes in a neat pile to the side. Even the lacerations seemed to be identical. Everything, right down to the length of the rope used to bind them was the same. Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder jumped right off the report, but he had a feeling that there was something else as well. The wounds were inflicted pre-mortem, a sign of dominance. The killer had to let the victims know they belonged to him. The mutilation of the genitals suggested that they themselves _may_ have been abused as a child, however, based on both victims' preference in the same sex, he had to conclude that the killer must hold some fear or repulsion towards homosexuality. Perhaps they were raised as a Catholic? The cross-like pattern carved into their chests would seem to indicate so. It was upside-down, at that...

The phone was ringing. Not even pausing to glance at it, he reached out with his free hand and grabbed for it, pressing it up to his ear as he continued to study the photos.

"Huang," he said shortly.

"Hey, George."

He paused only now, frowning slightly. A co-worker from the FBI who worked in the same field as he did, Halley Wordsworth. "Hal? What's wrong?"

She paused. He could hear her breathing on the other end of the line. "...could I come over for a bit?"

"Sure you can. Will you tell me what this is about, though?" George asked, speaking softly.

"I... yeah. I'm just... I think you should hear this. It pertains to your case," Wordsworth said, the mounting stress in her voice becoming more and more obvious.

"I see. Well, you're welcome to come over, I'm just reviewing some case files. You remember where the place is?" George asked.

"If you're still living in that shoddy excuse for an apartment then, yes, I remember," Wordsworth said, momentarily regaining some of her wit. "I'll... be over in a few."

He heard the distinct click of the line going dead as she ended the call. He vaguely wondered why he bothered with caller ID if he never looked at the phone to use it... However, when she showed up on his doorstep a short time later, he didn't dare question the significance of the call. She was somewhat difficult to read, he decided as he handed her a mug of tea, if only because she knew the tricks of the trade. Seated across from her, he attempted to decipher just what was wrong, setting his own mug to the side.

"I apologize, barging in on you like this," Wordsworth began. "You should be resting."

"Not at all. I've gotten more than a sufficient amount of rest," George informed her, smiling slightly. "Now, why don't you tell me what's on your mind."

"Georgie, you know your 'psychiatrist voice' has no effect on me," Wordsworth laughed, sipping from her mug.

"Fair enough," he noted in amusement.

"But you're right of course. The reason I needed to see you," she began, "is relevant to your case, as I noted earlier. The other night on my way home from work, it was rather late and I stopped at a convenience store to pick up a carton of milk. I have that bad habit of not noticing when things go past their expiration date, as you may recall. Well, upon leaving the convenience store, I found I had my back turned to the alley my car was parked next to."

George felt his stomach drop. Could she possibly be going where he thought she was going?

"Wouldn't you know that someone just... popped up behind me and grabbed hold. Looking back now, I'm ashamed I didn't have the foresight to reach for my firearm, or even notice he was there. Before letting me go, he whispered, 'I won't do to you, what I did to him. Yet.' I was so flustered that I... didn't even see which way he ran off," Wordsworth sighed, rubbing the back of her neck.

"You're afraid you'll be assaulted in the same manner that I was?" George asked, looking upon her with sympathy.

"No, that's not it," Wordsworth said suddenly. "I called Logan, Charlie and Tony shortly after I found out you'd been assaulted. I thought the four of us might be able to help, or that we should get together or... I dunno. In any case, Logan called me back yesterday morning. He had a note pinned to his door. Of course, he sent it to be tested for fingerprints and such, but here's a copy."

Reaching into her jacket pocket, she unfolded a piece of pink paper. Why did it always seem that there was never enough white paper to go around? You always ended up getting stuck with some obscene, retina searing color like neon orange or lime green. Reaching across the coffee table, he accepted the copy and began reading.

_Welcome to the fray, dear lamb,_

_I pray you'll stay and play._

_For only lambs can play with wolves_

_in such a witty way._

_As lambs I know that you must be_

_the brightest of the bunch._

_But even lambs have weaknesses._

_(Though that's only just a hunch.)_

_Fear not for those that you hold dear,_

_my trifle's with them not._

_But as for you five precious lambs,_

_I'd love to see you rot._

_I've waited far too long, you see,_

_for this brief and shining moment._

_For sweet death I'll make you beg;_

_a satisfactory atonement._

_So make arrangements, pay your dues,_

_since none of you have long._

_But you know the death that tops my list,_

_is that of your friend Huang._

George reread it for what seemed like the twentieth time, fully aware of Wordsworth's concerned gaze falling upon him. At last, he placed it upon the table, leaning back in his seat and reaching for his mug. Along with himself and Wordsworth, three men by the names of Logan Freeman, Charles Yates and Anthony Christopher had made up their little group when they were back in school at NYU. If the note was anything to go by, he had to assume that they were all being targeted.

"Logan sent this to the FBI?" George reaffirmed.

"Yes. I haven't gotten the results back... but I don't think they'll find much," Wordsworth noted disappointedly.

"It can't be Cunningham, then. He was never showed this kind of aptitude for poetry," George added distractedly.

"People can change, George. You know that. But I believe that we can agree either way that the five of us are the ones being targeted. And that you are the main target," she said quietly, pulling absently at a fiery loch of hair.

"Have Logan, Charlie and Tony taken precautions?" George asked, concern evident in his voice.

"Yes, Logan is sending his wife and child to stay with family. Charlie and Tony are going to be put under protective custody," Wordsworth informed him. "You may want to look into getting your detectives to keep an eye on you."

"Hal, you know—"

"_George_. I'm being serious. This is no laughing matter. Someone is after our lives... _your_ life especially," Wordsworth said forcefully. "Those detectives that came to question me, ah... the grumpy one and the rather nice woman..."

"Elliot Stabler and Olivia Benson," George recited.

"Right. Them. Talk to them. Promise me that you will, because if you don't, I'll do it for you," she sighed.

"All right, I promise," George replied, not looking especially fond of the idea.

It wasn't bad enough what had happened, no, now he had his life to worry about as well as the lives of his old school friends. One good thing about studying the field of psychology was that you learned to be able to maintain a poker face for relatively long periods of time. In fact, you often began to wear it so frequently that you couldn't distinguish your real face from your poker face. In this situation, it was both a blessing an a nuisance, as neither would admit how deeply the situation affected them. It almost left him longing for Elliot's flourish of emotions to break the apathy... almost.

"There's something about being wrapped around someone's finger," Wordsworth stated quite suddenly. "It's unusual. As a psychiatrist, I'm quite used to having things in control. I know you are as well. The feeling is infinitely strange."

He nodded solemnly, unspeaking.

"That Elliot Stabler... I have a feeling he'll play a vital role in this," she sighed.

"I'd almost rather he didn't. The Crusades claimed many," George said aloud.

She gave him a rather quizzical look, obviously confused, but he merely shook his head. Dismissing it. She wouldn't really understand, now, would she?

* * *

"When it's fess up or lawyer up... they always choose the latter," Munch grumbled.

"Well, they figure they got some kinda chance in court, I guess," Elliot quipped, pouring himself some coffee.

He didn't need eyes in the back of his head to know Munch was watching him. The dark dressed detective had been doing so ever since Elliot had been reassigned to work with him. It was similar to being watched by George, but without the presence of those horribly intrusive and rather irritating questions.

"Hey... what's up with you?" Munch questioned suddenly.

Or not.

Elliot quirked an eyebrow, glancing around as though unsure whether Munch was talking to him or someone else. He shrugged. "Nothin.'"

"No, not nothin.' You've been acting weird ever since this thing with the Doc," Munch informed him, pushing a pen across his desk idly.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Elliot asked defensively, squaring his broad shoulders.

"It means that even if you're off the case, you're still thinking about it," Munch replied.

"So what? You're saying you're not thinking about it?" Elliot retorted, seating himself on the edge of his own desk.

"Never said that. You know we're all thinking about it, I mean... it's the Doc," Munch said. "Look, Elliot, I'm not trying to ride you or anything, but maybe he was right about that whole crusade thing."

Elliot was glad he'd placed down the Styrofoam coffee cup, because if he'd been holding it while Munch was speaking, Cragen would be barking at him to clean up the spilled coffee. His eyes narrowed until they were practically slits and he rose to his full height, towering over the seated Munch. When he spoke it was in harsh, grating tones just a decibel above a whisper.

"Yeah? Well somebody has to do something about it," he hissed. "Just because everyone else is afraid to get their hands dirty doesn't mean I should be chastised about it."

"Back up there," Munch replied, leaning forward in his chair accusingly. "Are you insinuating that Fin and Liv are not taking this seriously?"

"Of course not," Elliot scoffed. "But you know as well as I do how this kind of thing effects the victims. And we're not dealing with just any victim. The guy's such a... fucking emotional void, it makes me think that the next time I go to see him will be at the fucking morgue. Who the fuck smiles and offers you a cup of coffee after something like that! Christ."

They both fell silent, Elliot snatching up his coffee cup and downing the sludgy contents—also known as Heartburn in a Cup—before flopping moodily into his own seat. Munch cast him a rather sullen look, trying to make himself appear busy by shuffling through papers. Elliot rubbed a hand over his face tiredly; what was wrong with him? Jesus fucking Christ on a bicycle. Lately, everyone just seemed to be so intent on convincing him that he was taking things too far. Too close to heart.

Yeah right.

* * *

Olivia couldn't help but whistle softly as she and Fin were ushered past the gate by a man dressed rather smartly—some kind of butler? At the end of a long driveway was an enormous house that bordered on being a mansion. The grounds were expansive and well attended to, flowers of varying exoticism providing a level of aesthetic and aromatic beauty that she was sure she'd not encountered before. When she'd last met Cunningham's ex-wife with Elliot, it had been at her work place.

"Well, Cunningham certainly got the short end of the stick," Olivia intoned softly as they walked up the front steps.

"I've never even seen where the guy lives now and I agree with you," Fin snorted, ringing the doorbell.

They heard some shuffling and muffled calling from inside before the door swung open. A woman, her auburn hair graying, answered the door. She was only slightly taller than Olivia, dressed neatly in a navy blue dress suit. She smiled warmly enough at them, though her appearance radiated a slight sense of anxiety.

"May I help you?" she asked.

"Yes, I'm Detective Olivia Benson, you may remember me, and this is Detective Odefin Tutuola. Would it be alright if we asked you a few more questions about your ex-husband?" Olivia asked, each giving her the obligatory badge flash.

The woman sighed, rubbing her temples. "Right, right... I'm sorry I didn't recognize you. Please, come in."

She stepped aside so as to allow them to do so. Olivia noted that if the outside could be considered magnificent, then the inside must be ten times so. Marble flooring and statues depicting cherubs and religious scenes gave the entryway an artful appearance; the crystal chandelier and winding staircase didn't hurt either.

"My name is Laurel, but I suppose you already knew that," the woman, Laurel, said evenly to Fin.

"Yeah. I know this might be uncomfortable for you—"

"Not at all, please, go ahead," Laurel said.

"Right. Have you received anything in the mail from your ex-husband recently?" Olivia asked.

"Various letters forwarded by his lawyer and a few other divorce papers. Custody issues, mostly," Laurel informed them.

"Anything specifically from him that didn't have to do with the divorce?" Fin questioned, eyes flickering at some movement at the top of the staircase.

"No, nothing," Laurel said, turning slightly as a boy came down the staircase. "I'm sorry, this is my son William. William, these are Detectives Benson and Tutuola."

The boy looked much like his father with his fly-away blonde hair and chiseled features, save for his warm brown eyes, which must be his mother's. He couldn't be much older than ten. He smiled brightly in the way that only a young boy could, reaching to shake each of their hands, surprising them with his manners.

"Just call me Will," he insisted.

"All right, Will. Nice to meet you. Can you tell us if your dad may have sent you anything in the mail recently?" Fin asked, looking suspicious.

Will regarded this with a level of curiosity, apparently scanning his memory. After a moment, his eyes lit up in recognition. "Yeah, he did. It was a little package with a note. He said not to open the package and keep it stashed for him."

Laurel gave Will a reproachful stare and he shrunk under it slightly, offering her a slight grin in apology.

"Do you think we could take a look at it?" Olivia pressed, feeling her pulse quicken.

"Is it for an important case?" Will asked skeptically.

"Very important. One of my friends was hurt," Olivia said softly.

Will frowned, perhaps thinking of what he would do if it were one of his friends. "Okay. I'll go get it."

"Thanks, Will," Fin called as the boy ran up the stairs once more.

Laurel sighed, watching him go. "Most people would be surprised to see him hand over his father so readily, but they never had a good relationship. I often thought Kyle cared more for his patients than he did his own son..."

Fin shifted uncomfortably as she said this, noting the sympathetic look given by Olivia. It only served to remind him of his own son. True, they were on better terms now, but it was no excuse. He'd put his job before his family. That was that. He looked up expectantly when Will came galloping towards them, a small package in his hands. He held it out to them.

"Here, I had it hidden in my secret spot," Will said, out of breath.

"What secret spot would this be?" Laurel asked, eyebrow quirked curiously.

"Not telling," Will giggled, tongue poked out.

Fin reached into his pocket, slipping on a pair of latex gloves, Olivia mirroring his actions. Carefully, deliberately, he unwrapped the package and peered inside. There was a syringe; used by the looks of it. He could have jumped for joy on the spot... but he was too cool for that.

"Is that gonna help your friend?" Will queried.

Olivia grinned, looking from the package to the boy appreciatively. "I think it is."

* * *

Elliot and Munch couldn't help but stare in curiosity as Olivia and Fin returned to the precinct, large smug smiles plastered on their features. As usual, Munch was ready with a witty comment to greet them.

"The only time people use that smile is after they get laid. You two wanna tell us something?" he quipped.

"Shut your bony ass up," Fin said with a half-laugh. "We got some pretty good news."

"Really? Mind sharing?" Elliot prodded, leaning forward expectantly.

"We went to visit Cunningham's ex-wife again. Turns out Cunningham sent a small package to his son William for safe keeping," Olivia informed them.

"There was a syringe in it that we think may have been used, so we sent that and the note that came with it down to CSU," Fin stated proudly.

"Oh, man, it's in the bag," Elliot marveled, cracking a smile to rival theirs.

"Rock solid evidence. There's no way he can possibly get out of this," Munch noted. "Which means the lovely Miss Novak will not be murdering any of us in our sleep."

"Damn. Good job, guys," Elliot said, elated and astounded at the sudden turn around.

"Well, the sooner we can get this thing wrapped up the better it'll be for George," Olivia added, frowning thoughtfully. If they'd been able to catch him even sooner...

It was really a wonder that people didn't associate bad luck with Captain Cragen. More often than not, it was his job to be the bearer of bad news. Although he didn't do so quite as frequently or in the same manner as George and Casey, he had rained on quite a few parades. As the group watched him move quickly from his office to their little gathering, Elliot couldn't help but remember the slogan on those old salt canisters: When it rains, it pours.

"We're putting the Doc under protective custody," Cragen stated, reaching them.

Olivia shifted uncomfortably. "What happened?"

"I just got another phone call from the Feds and they faxed this over," Cragen said, handing them a piece of paper.

The four detectives leaned in to read it. Reaching the last stanza, Elliot felt his blood boil. He clenched his jaw, trying to keep from lashing out. Looking down at his still bandaged knuckles, he was reminded of the imminent threat of "exile." Standing up, he paced back and forth quickly, sharing a disgusted look with his fellows.

"What is this shit?" he asked Cragen.

"I would have figured all your years as a cop would have told you it's a threatening letter," Cragen informed him flatly.

"No, I mean... where was it?" Elliot managed to respond calmly.

"It was found pinned to the door of Doctor Logan Freeman, a psychiatrist. They believe that aside from him and the Doc, Agent Halley Wordsworth, Doctor Charles Yates and Doctor Anthony Christopher are in danger," Cragen said. "Freeman is seeing his family off, Wordsworth is with the Doc and Yates is already under protective custody. Christopher can't be located."

"This just got a whole lot messier," Fin sighed, shaking his head in disbelief.

"You're not kidding. So, Olivia and Fin, I want you to see if you can get anything on Christopher's where-abouts out of Cunningham. Elliot, you go and make sure the Doc and Wordsworth are alright," Cragen instructed.

Elliot shook his head stubbornly. "No way, I'm questioning."

"I'm sorry, did it _sound_ like I gave you a choice?" Cragen queried firmly.

Elliot stared at him for a moment, squaring his jaw. But he knew that as stubborn as he was, there would be no way that the Captain would relent. Nodding jerkily, he walked away from the group, hoping that Cunningham would be getting his just desserts all too soon. Kramer appeared suddenly beside them, staring curiously after Elliot.

"My, is he all right?" Kramer asked.

"He's fine. He just needs to cool his heels," Cragen assured him.

"I see, well, hopefully he can do so. Bad things can happen when we let our tempers get out of control," Kramer mused, shifting his glasses.

* * *

While writing this, I came upon a certain thought. Love is conveyed in may ways; kissing, sex, gifts, glances, words... but to me, the height of the expression of love is simply the embrace of another human being. That's right, a hug. Kisses can be packs on the cheek, words and sex can be without meaning, gifts can be shallow and thoughtless... but you put your entire being into an embrace. And tell me that there is no greater feeling on this earth than being embraced by someone you love.

Yay, for more pseudo-philosophical banter! As always, reviews are highly appreciated, and than you for taking the time to read!


	6. Chapter VI: Inane

Ha. Obviously by the last chapter, you can tell I'm not much of a poet. No, unfortunately for me, God did not see fit to bless me with a poet's tongue... He did see fit, however, to bless me with a fool's wit. Which is dangerous. Witty idiots are to be feared.

Anywho! Sorry again for the long time between updates. I've been busy between weddings and schooling (just met my Calculus teacher, who is a very nice woman) and any number of things. And OZ. Can't forget OZ. But I think this chapter's a little longer than the rest, so hopefully that's a good thing. I dunno.

Thanks once again to my lovely reviewers!

**POPpop:** Yay! Someone else likes hugs as much as I do. Well, I'm glad you're liking his show of emotions. My little Elliot-Muse thinks I make it look like he has PMS... Hmm, I didn't update as soon as I would have liked, but that chapter _is_ longer. Do I still get that cyber hug? -looks up expectantly- :D

**J0:** I love new vocabulary words. I make a point of finding them for myself to further my education, or something like that. Since you pointed out the parts with Fin and Munch, I feel the incredible urge to doodle them out in comic form. Yeah, Kramer creeps me out, too. He's formed from the very dregs of my imagination (what a lovely picture). And you're correct in stating that there's more to him than meets the eye. I think you'll be surprised.

**PrueHalliwell2000:** Welcome aboard! I'm glad you decided to stop in. As much as I love my regulars, I love new faces as well.

**psychotic KAT:** Whoa. You _actually liked_ the poetry? That's amazing. I was utterly dissatisfied with it, but it was the best I could come up with, so I had to leave it. The really sad part was that I was picturing the meter for the song the Sorting Hat sings each year at Hogwarts. -shot for nerdy-ness-

* * *

**DISCLAIMER:** I do not own Law & Order: Special Victims Unit, nor anything associated with it. Though, I have looked for the rights to it on eBay. Apparently they _don't_ have everything. -emo tear-**

* * *

**

**Chapter VI:** Inane

Elliot shoved his keys deep into his jacket pockets as he slipped up the stairs of the apartment building. Finding George's door, he raised his hand to knock, but paused curiously when he heard voices inside. Right, Agent Wordsworth was with him. Shrugging off the thought, he knocked and heard brief shuffling noises before the door swung open.George stood in the doorway, sleeves rolled up past his elbows and a knife in one hand. Elliot stared.

"...am I interrupting something?" he asked.

"Oh, this?" George said questioningly, glancing at the knife. "We were just doing a bit of cooking."

The psychiatrist stepped aside to allow the detective entry. Stepping inside, he saw the red haired FBI agent hacking away mercilessly at a group of unsuspecting carrots. She spoke, not bothering to belay her butchery.

"We've been expecting you, detective."

"Really?" Elliot said, glancing questionably at George. "Then you must already know about that note found on Logan Freeman's door."

"Yes, Hal arrived here a few hours ago to inform me of the situation," George stated, ushering Elliot towards the couch. "I know you're close on the McClellan case, so I don't mind at all if you'd rather get out of here while you still can."

"Don't even try to worm your way out of this," Elliot stated, arms crossed over his chest. "Cap'n wouldn't let me question that little shit, so I'm doing the next best thing."

"Cunningham," George stated knowingly. "You believe he wrote the note?"

Elliot shifted slightly, remembering the doubts the psychiatrist had after the voice recognition. "Yeah, why wouldn't we?"

"The evidence might point to Cunningham, but I still don't believe it was him," George replied, shaking his head. "When we were at school, he was a bit of an... egotistical narcissist, sure, but there wasn't this level of malice in anything he did."

"Doc, that doesn't mean..." Elliot began, before letting his sentence dwindle off. He knew it was just going to get him hyped up again and he'd be damned if he flew off his handle in the presence of two shrinks. "Well, we're questioning him as to the where-abouts of Christopher."

"Tony? Hasn't he contacted the police?" Wordsworth said suddenly, pausing halfway between dicing a tomato to look his way.

"We're unable to locate him at this time," Elliot responded.

She grumbled quietly to herself, turning back to dice her tomato with unreasonable force. Elliot dragged his gaze from her to George. The man had a rather somber look on his face as he took this in before turning back to the small pantry. Elliot was unsure of what to say to break the tension.

"So, you two seem pretty calm considering someone wants you offed," he noted.

Perhaps not the best choice of words...

"Hmm? Oh it might seem like that, detective, but I'm rather quite anxious. Only, when I'm anxious, I cook," Wordsworth replied, dumping the contents off her cooking board and into a simmering pot.

"I recall her cooking would improve the more angry she was," George informed Elliot with a slight smirk.

Wordsworth rolled her eyes, slapping at him playfully. "I never heard you complaining."

Elliot watched the exchange carefully. They seemed rather close... why hadn't any of the squad seen or heard of her before? Then again, he knew very little of the psychiatrist's social life, so it wasn't out of the question that he would have friends. Or girlfriends. He shifted slightly, eyeballing them.

"So, are you two, uh...?" Elliot asked, motioning between them.

"What... _dating_?" Wordsworth said incredulously. She laughed loudly, stirring the contents of the pot.

"No, Elliot, we're not dating," George said with a pitying smile.

"Well you're the one that's so clingy," Elliot shot at Wordsworth.

She looked at him appraisingly. "Clingy? Hmm, well there was that one night after finals that both of us had too much to drink..."

"Drop it, Hal," George said softly.

"Oh, come on, Georgie," Wordsworth chuckled. "Detective Stabler, you'll be joining us for dinner, I assume?"

"Huh?"

"Dinner. Want in?" Wordsworth asked again.

"I'm supposed to be guarding you two," Elliot intoned.

"Then you can guard us while we all eat," Wordsworth insisted. She wiped her hands on a dishcloth and looked to George. "Jun's gonna blow a gasket wondering where I am. Is it alright if I use your phone?"

"Certainly. Take your time," George replied.

The fiery haired woman grinned at Elliot as she sauntered off down the hall to speak in privacy to "Jun." Elliot didn't know who "Jun" was, and he wasn't especially curious about it either. He watched George pick up where Wordsworth had left off. He felt rather useless just sitting there, so he stood and rolled up his sleeves, watching over the doctor's shoulder.

"Can I help?" he asked.

George glanced back at him. "You don't have to."

"...is that a yes or a no?" Elliot asked sourly.

"Whatever you want," George replied with a casual smirk.

Grunting in the affirmative, Elliot washed his hands quickly and glanced at the chicken laying on the cutting board before him. Grabbing a knife, he tried to envision the unfortunate piece of poultry as Cunningham. Slicing it up turned out to be fairly good for all that anger he'd been internalizing. Granted, he didn't know some of the finer points of cooking, but he thought he was doing a pretty good job.

"How was your day?" George asked quite suddenly, peering into the simmering pot and pushing around its contents with a mixing spoon.

"It was... fine," Elliot decided.

"Have you talked to your children?" George pressed.

"No. No, not today," Elliot said with a sinking feeling.

The sudden mention of his children invited guilt and loneliness to once again begin to eat away at that hole. Making it bigger. Taking more away from him. It was strange... He didn't know whether the psychiatrist knew how to fight or not, but he didn't really need to. Often times, his words alone were enough to make you feel like you'd been socked in the stomach. Hard.

"You're feeling guilty," George stated, brow furrowing in a knowing manner.

"Maybe," Elliot grunted, slicing a section of fat cleanly away from the meat.

"Elliot, if you're really feeling that way, why stay? You know perfectly well someone else would do just as well to watch us," George stated. "You need to see your children. For some people, necessity entails only the basic human needs: food, water, shelter. But I can see things are different for you. Being away from your children or being unable to see them is just as good as starving yourself."

The detective paused when he heard this. Just what the hell was going on in that shrink's head? The imminent threat of being offed seemed to do little to effect him.

"Do you just not want me here, or something?" Elliot asked, hand poised over the cutting board.

"I'm not trying to get rid of you, I just don't want to see you continue to be weighed down by guilt," George replied quietly.

"I'm gonna feel guilt either way, y'know. I stay here and I feel guilt for not seeing my kids. I see my kids, and I feel guilt for not guarding you," Elliot said.

"I don't know why you would feel guilt over asking someone to relieve you of your post here," George admitted with a smile. "It's not as though Hal or I hold you responsible or anything."

"I know that... my kids are safe with Kathy," Elliot said, feeling a lump rise in his throat at the thought of them. He struggled to talk around it. "So if I were to leave you with someone who doesn't take things as seriously as I do and something happened... I dunno what I'd do. My kids are safe. I have to make sure you and that Wordsworth are, too."

George nodded lightly at this notion, skinning the cucumbers. As usual, the Irishman's good old Catholic Guilt took over and wouldn't allow him to think rationally. He was torn between the need to see his family, and the obligation to stay that he'd imposed upon himself. It was just going to tear him up on the inside. The psychiatrist had seen the conflicting emotions behind the detective's eyes on more than one occasion. He knew of the war raging. The question was... would there be casualties?

"Aren't you bothered by that note?" Elliot asked, eager to change the subject.

"Of course. I believe anyone would be," George recited calmly.

"Yeah, they would. But you're not flipping out over it," Elliot noted.

"Not that you can see, no. There is a vast difference between feeling an emotion and expressing it. I'm feeling a number of different things right now, things that will not help me if I choose to express them," George informed him.

"Most people aren't able to distinguish between the two," Elliot said, glancing down once more at his knuckles. "What makes you so different?"

"A doctorate and the student loan debts I've wracked up," George quipped.

"Real funny, Doc. But honestly... why aren't you losing your head over this? You or Wordsworth?" Elliot queried.

"That's because I trust you," George admitted.

"I'm sorry... what?" Elliot asked incredulously.

"Is it really that difficult to believe?" George asked.

"No, but that's like the mother of all guilt trips," Elliot groaned, shaking his head. "Now there's no way I can even think about leaving you, thanks to your _trust_."

"You misunderstand. If you are here, I trust you. If you decide to leave, I trust you not to leave me with someone incapable of handling the situation," George corrected him.

"So you just enjoy making me feel like an asshole," Elliot interpreted. "Christ. Thanks for the trust."

"Well I don't trust you! You've mutilated my chicken, you brute," Wordsworth reprimanded, walking back into the pantry.

Elliot looked down at the chicken, then back to her. "There's nothing wrong with it."

"You have no culinary appreciation, do you? George, I don't know how you stand him," Wordsworth sighed.

Rather than stop them, George just sat back and watched the two bicker. They argued over first, the chicken, then proceeded to culinary items in general, to who was more of an asshole, to why they were even arguing in the first place. It was easy to forget things when you were enjoying yourself, which they were, as much as they'd hate to admit it. By the time they'd finally sat down, they'd somehow managed to rope George in as well.

"So the point I was trying to get across was that our field is severely under appreciated," Wordsworth explained, waving a hand about aimlessly. "And don't and say you think otherwise, Elliot. That would be a lie."

"Well, the Doc's definitely helped us out a lot in a few cases but I don't like psychiatry at all. You can't pretend to know all about people from reading some books and shoving pills down their throats," Elliot countered, popping a piece of chicken in his mouth. "And when did we get on a first name basis?"

"Since I'm an FBI agent and can do whatever the fuck I want," Wordsworth snorted.

"Elliot, there's a lot more to profiling and psychiatry than you'd think," George stated. "I can spend up to forty-eight hours, sometimes even more, working on one person."

"Yeah, there's a lot of work, I'll give you that, but you can't really say you know someone in that short a time," Elliot said.

"That's true. However, I don't really have the option of taking my time, do I?" George pointed out.

"Right," Elliot intoned wistfully. "Still, there's something not right about messing with people's heads. Especially all those drugs."

"You're highlighting the negative side of the profession that the media just seems to love to latch onto," Wordsworth said.

"That's right. What you have to understand that mental illnesses are the same as any other illnesses. Just because they don't have any physical symptoms like, say, internal bleeding or some kind of justifiable pain, doesn't make them any less harmful," George insisted. "Left untreated, people can die from certain mental illness the same as any other. It's not all about prying into people's minds and shoving pills down their throats. It's about trying to help them with something that can be very frightening and difficult to admit to having. Not to mention painful, in more ways than one."

Elliot chewed thoughtfully on his food and shrugged. "But you admit a lot of guys like you two are simply prescription printers."

"Yes. But that doesn't lessen the need for this kind of study," Wordsworth said, pushing her carrots around her plate. "George already knows, but my little brother, Tobias, died when we were still very young. I know now that what he was suffering from was paranoid schizophrenia, but at the time, well... there wasn't much anyone could do for him. He told me, often, about the voices and the things they would tell him to do. Tell him about who was watching him and what they were saying behind his back. He committed suicide. Hanged himself in the closet in our bedroom and I slept right through it. So I entered this profession for people like him, so they can have a chance at life."

The detective digested this carefully. There wasn't much he could say in response. 'I'm sorry,' sounded like a rather weak remark. Instead, he opted to nod his head in solemn respect for the dead. Wordsworth seemed to understand. Elliot glanced at George.

"So why did you become a shrink?" he asked.

"Why did you join Special Victims Unit?" George bounced back.

"Again with the deflective questions," Elliot sighed, reaching for the salt. "All right, I'll bite. I joined because I wanted to help people."

"Then there's your answer," George replied with a smile.

"That's it? No complicated story about how mental illness touched your life?" Elliot pressed.

"Nope. Simple as that," George replied honestly.

"Jeez. And here I was gearing up for some long, drawn out story," Elliot said. "You disappoint me, Doc."

"No kidding, George, Christ. To make up for it, why don't you tell him about one of our many med school exploits," Wordsworth prodded.

"No, Hal, we don't need any of that," George insisted.

"Aw, c'mon, Doc... please?" Elliot said with a mock pout. "You spend all day prying inside my head, now let's see in yours."

George tapped his fork against his plate rhythmically, contemplating it. At last he shook his head in defeat and Elliot shared a smug grin of victory with Wordsworth.

"Fine, have it your way," George sighed.

* * *

"—so what ended up happening was that Hal, Logan and I had to hide in the broom closet, only the door got jammed when Logan slammed it. We were trapped in there for eight hours until the custodian finally found us," George concluded with a small grin. 

"No shit!" Elliot hooted. "What'd you do for eight hours?"

"Played three hundred rounds of Twenty-Questions," Hal said, rolling her eyes. "I made sure to take a remedial course in lock picking after that."

"Christ, who'd have thought it?" Elliot said with a grin.

"All right, enough of that," George insisted. "Hal, is Jun coming to pick you up?"

"Hmm? Oh, that's right," Hal said suddenly, glancing at her watch. "Let me help with clean up before he gets here."

"You don't—"

"Oh, shut up, I need the practice," Hal replied, cutting him off.

Elliot resisted the urge to inform them that they fought like an old married couple, considering it seemed like Wordsworth had a boyfriend. Rising from his seat, he began helping as well, stacking the plates and ushering them over to the sink, which was by now filled with soapy water. The conversation continued there as they proceeded to a three man team of washing, drying and stacking. Wordsworth cocked her head to the side curiously, looking to Elliot.

"So, Georgie tells me you have children," she chirped.

"Uh-huh," Elliot mumbled, placing one plate in the cabinet.

"Any pointers you'd like to offer?" Wordsworth prodded innocently.

Elliot smirked. "You have kids?"

"Not for another eight months or so," she retorted.

"Doc, at least take responsibility for the kid's sake," Elliot teased.

George shook his head laughingly as he passed the detective another dish. "I'm quite content to play the role of godfather, thank you."

"Right, so... advice, huh? Well here's not a whole lot I can give," Elliot said thoughtfully. "I mean, it's like a trial and error process, raising a kid. All of 'em are different. The best thing you can do as parent is be there for 'em, provide for 'em and love 'em. Everything else just kinda comes as you go along. There's no manual for bringing a kid up so it's up to you to teach them right from wrong and instill the right morals in them."

Wordsworth nodded in apparent thoughtfulness, up to her elbows in suds. "Seems about right. I'll make sure to keep that in mind."

A knock at the door disrupted them. George slung the dishtowel over his shoulder and slunk off towards the door, asking who it was. Apparently satisfied with the answer he received, he opened the door. Elliot watched the doctor shake hands with a man around his own height with a mop of dark hair. The two walked over, causing Wordsworth to discontinue her work.

"Elliot, this is Agent Jun Kimura. Jun, this is Detective Elliot Stabler," George said, initiating the introductions.

Elliot reached out and shook the man's hand. "Hey, nice to meet ya."

"Likewise. You're with Special Victims?" Kimura asked.

"Yeah, you hear it from these two?" Elliot asked.

"Well, since you decided to question Hal..." Kimura noted. He grinned. "Speaking of which, I bet you're just dying to get her out of your hair."

Wordsworth hurled her dishcloth at him. "You cheeky...!"

"By all means, take her," George added.

Wordsworth rolled her eyes in a good natured manner, disappearing down the hall no doubt to retrieve her coat. Kimura frowned slightly watching her go, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his long overcoat.

"She's brightened considerably," he noted idly. "All week she'd been fretting over this whole... thing. Which leads me to wonder how _you've_ been, George."

"Fine," George replied shortly.

"Ah. I see," Kimura sighed. He knew to leave it at that. "You'll be watching him then, Detective Stabler?"

"Yeah, that'd be right," Elliot replied. "You're watching her?"

"Wouldn't trust anyone else to," Kimura said with a shrug.

"I can see why," Elliot noted.

"Jun, we'd better go before you bore them to death," Wordsworth said, re-entering the room with her own jacket on.

"That's entirely unfair. I happen to think I'm incredibly entertaining, if you give me a chance," Kimura pouted.

"Sure you are, sweetheart," Wordsworth said, patting his arm pityingly. She turned to the detective and the psychiatrist. "Well, that was an interesting evening. We should try it again sometime."

"I wouldn't mind that," George said with a smile.

"I'll mutilate your chicken anytime," Elliot added with a wink.

"Keep your day job, Stabler," Wordsworth laughed, moving to embrace George. "And _you_ take care of yourself. You've got us all worried sick."

"I will," George responded. "And stop worrying, everything will work itself out."

"Elliot, you'd better keep a close eye on him. I'm pregnant and hormonal, so there's no telling what I might do to you if you don't," Wordsworth informed him seriously.

"I'll make sure to keep that in mind," Elliot said with a grin.

Kimura and Wordsworth departed, leaving the now increasingly familiar awkward silence in their wake. With a slight sigh, George proceeded back toward the sink to finish off the remaining few dishes. After a moment of deliberation, Elliot slunk after him. The two worked in silence for some time; each stewing privately in their thoughts. The detective noticed the way the psychiatrist wiped at the dishes with slow, gentle motions; the same slow, gentle motions he'd used on the Elliot's knuckles. He glanced down at them. The bandages were gone now.

"Are they bothering you?"

Elliot glanced up. "Hmm? Oh, no. I was just thinking."

The psychiatrist nodded, passing off the last dish and beginning to rinse away any suds that lingered in the sink. Elliot closed the cabinet door, drying his hands on the dishtowel slung over his shoulder. A short while later found them once again seated around the coffee table. The psychiatrist sifted through files endlessly, circling and making notes, typing away on his laptop all the while. After some time, Elliot piped up.

"Is this all you do?" he asked.

"Excuse me?" George responded, sounding befuddled by the question.

"I mean, the only thing I've seen you do besides eat and sleep is work. You must chum around with Wordsworth or something," Elliot noted.

"Occasionally," George said. "But primarily, anyone I would socialize with is very busy, myself included."

"So work never ends."

"Well, an FBI agent is technically never off duty," George replied with a smirk. "And a psychiatrist is always—"

He paused with a frown, reaching to his side. Elliot watched him retrieve a pager, regard it curiously, then frown as he replaced it a his side and stood.

"I have to go see one of my patients," he stated.

"I thought you weren't at work for another week," Elliot said, curiously.

"Not officially, no," George informed him, already retrieving his coat.

* * *

Elliot leaned patiently against the wall, watching the goings-on through a thick pane of glass. He didn't really know what was wrong with the "patient" but he looked like he was just about ready to snap. He kept twitching, pulling at the sleeves of his shirt, bouncing his foot on the ball of his heel and glancing apprehensively from side to side. Yet there sat George, calm as ever and concerned only for his patient. Elliot didn't understand. The man was a convicted felon, sent to Bellevue after escaping on an insanity plea, so why show him any amount of sympathy at all? 

His stomach lurched at what happened next.

The patient suddenly launched himself out of his seat and at George, sending the chairs and table toppling with them. Elliot found himself hurrying into the small room along with a handful of orderlies to separate the two grappling on the floor. As the orderlies struggled to remove the patient from the room, Elliot stooped down and grabbed the psychiatrist by the arm, attempting to help him to his feet. George stood, looking shaken but otherwise unharmed.

"Doc, you alright?" Elliot asked, concerned.

"Yes, I'm fine. Thank you, Elliot," George replied with a sigh. "I just pushed him too hard."

Elliot glanced after said patient, who had been given a tranquilizer and was being wheeled out of the room strapped to a stretcher. As far as he was concerned, that guy was lucky the orderlies got to him before Elliot did. Suddenly noticing he was still gripping the psychiatrist's arm, the detective let go, allowing his own arms to fall back to his sides.

"Wanna get outta here?" Elliot questioned.

"In a minute. I have to check on him first and make sure he didn't harm himself," George said.

"He just tried to strangle you," Elliot grunted.

"He's not in his right mind," George insisted, already making his way towards the door.

"_You're_ not in your right mind," Elliot informed him, moving quickly to follow. "I'm not gonna go let you go put yourself in harm's way just to make sure he's feeling all right."

For once, George did not pause at the doorway, did not stop to turn around and tell the detective off. He merely continued on as though he hadn't even heard Elliot. Watching him disappear around the corner, Elliot felt his blood come to a boil. Why did every encounter with him turn into a roller coaster ride? At some points they got along fine enough, even to an almost friendly point... but at others, they fought bitterly, neither wanting to give any ground. And if either did, it was begrudgingly.

Exiting the room, he leaned once more against the wall, exhaling in the quiet. He twitched in slight surprise when he felt his phone vibrating at his side. He reached for it and flipped it open.

"Stabler," he greeted.

"El, it's me," Olivia said on the other line.

"Oh, hey. What's goin' on?" Elliot asked.

"Not much. We just got the results back on that syringe we sent to the lab," Olivia informed him. "Thought you might like to hear it."

"Yeah, run it by me," Elliot replied.

"Well, first of all, there were prints all over it. They ran it through the system and it matched up to Cunningham perfectly," Olivia said. "There wasn't anything they could find on the note, but Casey's thrilled with what we've given her."

"That's great, Liv," Elliot sighed, relieved.

"Yeah, it is. I can't wait to put this guy behind bars where he belongs," Olivia said with a hint of relief as well. She paused slightly. "Are you guys all right over there?"

"Yeah, we're good," Elliot replied.

"...d'you need me to come relieve you for the night?" Olivia offers.

"No, no. I'm not done yet," Elliot affirms.

To his partner, he was sure the statement merely sounded as though he were saying he was still good to go for a while yet. But he knew that wasn't the case. He knew it meant that he wasn't done with George. Each time he felt he'd gotten close, there had been some kind of interruption or the psychiatrist had managed to veer him off course. But he needed to know what made the other tick... he needed to know that the other wasn't feeling the same hole eating away inside that the detective was.

"Well, all right," Olivia said, sounding hesitant. "I'll give you a call in the morning to make sure things are still going well."

"Thanks a lot, Liv. I appreciate it," Elliot said with a smile. "One more thing. If you get a chance, could you run through those security tapes from Cunningham's building? I keep feeling like there's something we missed..."

"No problem, partner. Just make sure you don't kill each other... I know you two don't do well with prolonged contact," Olivia laughed.

"No kidding," Elliot agreed. "Night, Liv."

"Night to you guys, too."

Just as he hanged up, he saw the psychiatrist walking down the hall towards him; one hand shoved in his pocket, the other rubbing at the back of his neck. Elliot stood off the wall as he approached and the two proceeded down the hall, any awkward feelings having been stripped away.

"He's sedated now, but I'll need to come back and see him tomorrow," George stated as they stepped into the elevator.

"I don't get it," Elliot replied.

"I don't either, sometimes," George admitted, leaning against the side of the elevator wearily. "But then, there are patients who rely on me to help them. Being able to be there for them more than makes up for those who would rather have nothing to do with me."

"Then why not just leave them be?" Elliot asked.

"Refusing to help someone just because they refuse help, or refuse help because they don't know they need it, is immoral as far as I'm concerned," George said.

"Maybe. But sacrificing your health for theirs isn't any better," Elliot pointed out.

"I wasn't hurt," George reminded him.

"Maybe not this time," Elliot replied as they walked towards the parked car at the end of the garage. "But there've been other times. Like with Brodus... the guy bashed your skull into the wall."

"Brodus wasn't a patient," George said, subconsciously rubbing the back of his head. "And it was my own fault for seeing the warning signs too late."

"And yet you keep—" He ducked into the driver's seat. "—going back."

"You make it sound as though I'm walking into a den of lions," George said from the passenger's seat.

"Yeah, well you may as well be," Elliot informed him as he started the car.

"It's not as though you don't put yourself in the same or very similar situations," George pointed out.

"Oh, so it's a contest, now?" Elliot noted with mild amusement.

"You know that's not what I mean," George sighed.

"Well... I'm still pissed at you, just so you know," Elliot asserted. "And I've decided that while I'm guarding you, you're not allowed to put yourself in any kind of compromising situations. If you do, I'll make sure you regret it."

"Yes, mother."

"Was that sarcasm, Doctor?"

"It might have been."

Elliot glanced over. Although the psychiatrist still bore the ghost of a smirk, his head was reclined against the seat, his eyes closed lightly. Before this whole mess started, the detective had never seen him so appear so drained. He bore the usual stress of work—the kind they all did, considering sometimes it could be hell—but never this; quite the contrary, the psychiatrist usually came to work with a kind of energy Elliot couldn't really describe. It wasn't as though he were outright energetic, but rather, he seemed to almost hum steadily. Elliot, on the other hand, was something more akin to a room full of firecrackers and a fresh book of matches: ready to go off at a moment's notice.

* * *

The detective sat once more on the couch in George's living room, staring out a window contemplatively. The psychiatrist had attempted to offer him the bed instead, to which Elliot had responded by shoving the good doctor into his room and closing the door firmly. 

Alone now, he tried to recall the security tapes. Ever since he'd mentioned it to Olivia, the thought had once again been nagging him... They pretty much had Cunningham cornered, so he wasn't sure why it tugged at his subconscious so. Was it just because he felt the need to crush Cunningham completely? Or was there really something there that he was missing? He felt like he had a puzzle before him; complete, save for one missing piece.

But if there was something that remained to be seen, Olivia would find it. He trusted his partner.

Trust.

Huh. Elliot still couldn't stir the thought from his mind. George _trusted_ him? It almost seemed perverse when looking at their relationship in retrospect. All right, perverse was pushing it, but they hadn't liked each other.

He could still remember their first meeting, mainly because he's despised the psychiatrist's presence. The way he judged them all so calculatingly from behind those geeky glasses—he sometimes wondered what happened to them—and was so sure of himself. Not very long after, they'd worked together on trying to weasel a confession out of Matthew Brodus. What a trip that had been! He was always about a split second away from punching the doctor, just to shut him up. The worst part was going into his office; basically admitting he'd been wrong...

But George had been on that side of he fence as well. Like the time Elliot had coerced—well, he didn't think of it that way—Kevin Walker's confession after he'd been given medication. He'd gotten really fired up about that, going so far as to storm out of Cragen's office and threaten to testify on Walker's behalf. But then he'd come back to see Elliot later and they continued on as though the little spat had never occurred. Privately, the detective admitted he got a sense of enjoyment out of the almost guilty look on the psychiatrist's face.

They continued to butt heads on various subject matters as time wore on. Hell, George butted heads with pretty much everyone at some point. Even Olivia, to whom he seemed closest. But then, often times it was because they were dealing with an unpleasant subject—what else was new?—and didn't like the way he theorized and hypothesized. Plus, he was still a Fed, after all.

Elliot continued to feel conflicted about where they stood with each other. Granted, he felt more protective of George since this whole thing began, but he felt that with any victim. So what _was_ he feeling?

Stupid seemed oddly appropriate.

* * *

And... chapter complete. Ugh, I'm exhausted. George-Muse has been telling me to go to sleep for four hours... Elliot-Muse has been threatening to sue me for defamation of character... Cragen-Muse wants licorice. -bats at them irritably-

Once again, I'm hoping I didn't complete kill things. Reviews are appreciated and I'll see you on the next update!


	7. Chapter VII: Pride

Hngblargh. Yet another slow update. And unfortunately, you'll all have to wait at least a week for the next one, as I'll be on a cruise and therefore unable to write/update. But, there is good news! George _finally_ lets Elliot have it in this chapter! I was pretty satisfied with how it turned out. It wasn't how I had first thought it, but it turned out better than what I'd first thought... so I'm not complaining.

-tosses the Cragen-Muse some licorice- I wanted to have a bit of Cragen in this chapter because, well... I feel like I neglect him. I tried to highlight on the fatherly role he plays, though I'm not sure I managed to do so successfully. But for some reason, I had a fun time describing the sunlight early in this chapter. I have no idea why. Brownie points to whoever can find the allusion toward the movie "Breach" in this chapter. ;D

As a side note, I was going through various episodes of SVU that I own and kinda laughed a little at some things that jumped out. For instance, in the Season 5 episode "Bound" they're contemplating how the perp strangled his victims. George walks in, opens his briefcase and retrieves a bit of rope, then tosss it to Elliot and says, "Strangle me?" I nearly died with a giggle fit. Not to mention the hilarious smirk on Elliot's face when he replies, "I'll try." and George says, "I'll hold the rope." I have to keep playing it back because it amuses me so. Then, in the Season 7 episode "Fault" I was surprised to see Elliot go to talk to George. Of his own volition. As in... willingly. They talk and stuff, but the funny thing was that Elliot got all upset and went to leave, muttering "Thanks." As he shuts the door, George goes "Elliot..." but he's already gone. I have to say, he had the cutest sort of... pout. It was so... d'awww. x3

But enough fangirlish ramblings. Unless you'd like to talk about "Execution" which establishes the EG relationship. -cracks up- Oh, God... I have no life.

Thanks once again to my lovely (and incredibly patient) reviewers!

**POPpop:** I can feel the eHug! I run up and hug random strangers anyway, so it should be fun! I rather like the little banter between Elliot and Hal as well. I try and make her somewhat like a female Elliot... just to bother poor George further. Tension is fun and most definitely squee-worthy. I squee while I write it, if you'd believe that.

**laurahalvey:** Mm-hmm! Very astute! You'll get to see just what that is, too. And thank you very much! In their kind of job, you have to get into the mind of the criminal. In my writing, I have to ge into the mind of the psychiatrist. -chuckle- Which is why I went out and bought a book on Serial Killer Profiling and DSM-IV. I'm serious. I'm actually reading them. -stupid grin-

**J0:** Ha, yeah. There's just something fun about writing a scene where Wordsworth and Elliot argue. I hadn't penned her as a character with any significance, but then I decided it might be fun to twist my own storyline a little. Plus, it's easy for me to use her as a springboard for George to vault ideas off of. I like that element of them, too! I always thought that was how it seemed... George is a very knowing and understanding guy, and Elliot can't stand it. -laughs- Mmm, I like using analogies. It's rather fun for me to write. And you watch, he'll figure it out in a little bit, the poor guy. -throws more licorice to the Cragen-Muse for the hell of it-

**LilyHellsing:** Ah, thanks very much! And welcome aboard. A Hellsing fan, I see?

**PrueHalliwell2000:** I'm glad to see I updated it, too. -sweatdrop-

**psychotic KAT:** Sweet! I actually bought the Hogwarts Gryffindor school shirt (complete with tie) from Hot Topic last week. I'm gonna wear it the first day of school. HIGH FIVE. xD

**

* * *

****DISCLAIMER:** I do not own Law & Order: Special Victims Unit. Never-the-less... the preview for Season 9 nearly made me wet myself. George. Locked in an interview room. With a psychotic Sex in the City chick. FOR. THE. WIN. Save him Elliot! D: **

* * *

**

**Chapter VII:** Pride

Elliot sat for a long while; quiet and unmoving. He'd been quite contemplative the past couple of hours, pondering where he and George stood with each other. It was a complicated thing—the kind that required long hours of deep thought which lead you to a frustrating lack of answers with thrice as many questions as when you began. One thing that was becoming increasingly—and annoyingly—clear was that given any animosity, any sort of tension between them, Elliot was usually the one to react to it.

He shot his mouth off. He grumbled. He showed the doctor what was what. Rarely, if ever, did George show the same kind of anger, merely looking back with his own, quiet intensity. Yet, despite remaining docile, it seemed as though the doctor were trying to provoke the detective at times, or get a rise out of him. Like it was a game.

Perhaps it was and he hadn't been made aware that he was a player.

He felt an abashed flush creeping up on him, realizing the things he'd been bringing into question the past few hours. The early morning New York sun filtered in through the blinds on the window, casting lazy shadows across the furniture and flooring. Despite his feeling that the place was rather desolate—and it was—the sudden flush of sunlight gave it a more serene appearance; almost comfortable. It fell languidly over the leather armchair by the coffee table, which appeared to be the most worn thing in the apartment. Still further, it spilled across the carpet like sweet, amber honey, cascading over his body like a warm shower.

Tilting his head back, his shifted his now stiff shoulders, allowing himself a moment's peace to drink it in. There was something about the way the sun rose that managed to stifle just about any negative thoughts swimming around in his mind. Unfortunately for Elliot, they were never in short supply. You could always tell who hadn't gotten any sleep the previous night when you walked into the 16th precinct; who had been kept up by the images that refused to leave their mind's eye. You could tell because they made a complaint about the coffee. Now, the coffee was always horrible: it was a fact and the detectives had all learned to suck it down and deal with it. So if it just so happened that someone grumbled over it more that usual, that meant a lack of rest due to a plague of nightmares.

He'd had his share. One that had taken quite a while for him to move past was their run-in with that strange cult of "Abraham." All those children murdered... and for what? So their "leader" wouldn't be caught? For the preservation of their "ideals"? It was sickening. It was _still_ sickening. He supposed it had bothered him more because of his refusal to admit it bothered him. That, coupled with the fact that George had deemed him unfit to handle the case, only made it a nightly visitor to his dreams.

Elliot started suddenly when he heard a noise from the back room. It had been a muffled... thump. Suspicious, he rose from the couch, silently drawing his firearm as he moved stealthily down the hall. Quickly checking his surroundings, he pressed his ear against the bedroom door. It was silent. Twisting the doorknob slowly, he opened the door in one fluid motion, gun up and aimed before he'd even stepped in.

There was no one in the room save George; sprawled on the bed amidst scattered papers and books. One of his arms fell languidly over the side of the bed, his fingertips ghosting over the carpet. Not far away was a rather large and heavy looking copy of DSM-IV. Elliot heaved a sigh, tucking his gun away.

"Christ," he mumbled, stooping to pick the book up.

Apparently, the large volume had merely taken a tumble; the cause of the noise. He turned it over in his hands, inspecting it, before replacing it on the small nightstand by the bed, whose occupant had not yet stirred. To him, it seemed the doctor was sleeping more than what he would consider healthy. Then again, Elliot remained unaware of the full extent of the doctor's injuries. On some level, he wasn't entirely sure he wanted to know. He didn't like the way George seemed so... frail, now. Well, in actuality, he didn't seem frail, but that was the impression Elliot had formed due to a lack of emotion on the good doctor's part. And the excessive sleeping. He wanted—needed—the other to give him some kind of sign that he would be all right.

He paused a moment to reflect on this thought. The slumbering psychiatrist would no doubt find it amusing that Elliot was concerned over _him _of all people. He'd probably give him that horrid, snarky smirk, too. Elliot wrinkled his nose in distaste. _The smirk_ was often accompanied and/or followed by_ the look_, which consequently lead to _the lecture_. If there was one thing he could do without, it was George's lectures. The man had a bad habit of interceding during a case to ever so gently chew their asses out over something he considered morally wrong, or something along those lines anyway. Elliot was annoyed by George in the manner one might be annoyed by their conscience. George was the voice of reason; forever pestering him to avoid things that he might want to do that just so happened to be bad.

Like punching walls.

* * *

Elliot was surprised when, some time later, George made his way to the living room and plopped onto his chair—a chair that Elliot was now able to conclude, must be his favorite piece of furniture in the entire apartment. He slouched—something completely out of character—dark eyes regarding Elliot curiously. The detective stared back with stormy blue orbs, quirking his eyebrows expectantly. 

"I'm sorry, I should've woken earlier," George initiated.

"I dunno why you're apologizing," Elliot admitted. "I could care less if you slept all day or not."

George nodded thoughtfully. "Did you sleep at all?"

Elliot let out a surprised half-laugh. "Sleep? 'Course not, Doc, I can't guard you while I'm asleep."

"Depriving yourself of sleep isn't what I'd call a wise choice," George informed him.

Elliot stared at him flatly. "For someone who just woke up, you're awfully chatty."

"Your point?"

"You talk too much."

George smiled slightly, shaking his head. He was a psychiatrist! It was only natural for him to inquire about something like, say, sleeping. He asked a lot of questions, true, but that was because he needed to now what a person was feeling and how or why they were feeling it. In one sense, he did feel slightly apologetic, as Elliot must have been thoroughly sick of his constant prying. But on the other and, the man often practically lined himself up for it, whether he knew it or not.

"Either way," Elliot said, breaking his train of thought, "it's probably like I said earlier... you need the sleep. I mean, with your injuries..."

The detective let his sentence fall off, waving a hand to somehow prove his point.

"I understand what you're saying, I'd just rather I didn't need to," George informed him.

"Hn. Yeah," Elliot mumbled distractedly. "Well, I read the report and stuff, but I never really... Exactly how bad was it?"

"Nothing much," George replied matter-of-factly. "Aside from the knife wound there was just some bruising and a few minor scrapes."

"They getting any better?" Elliot asked pointedly.

George could have laughed at how direct he was being. Could have. "Yes, thank you."

The conversation continued idly, allowing the two men to toast some bagels and brew some coffee before sauntering back to the living room, where it continued on toward their work. Somehow, they always ended up talking about work. Always.

"So how come you never go with us when we head out for drinks after a case?" Elliot asked, generously smearing cream cheese over one half of a bagel.

"A few reasons," George replied in a reserved manner, doing much the same as the detective, opting for jelly instead.

"...such as?" Elliot prompted.

"Well, for one, it's against bureau policy to drink on or off duty," George recited.

"You're kidding, right? That's just plain bizarre. I mean, I can understand where they're coming from, not wanting to have any of you guys running around like slobbering drunks, but none at all is pushing it," Elliot commented.

"Not everyone follows that particular policy, I can assure you," George noted with a laugh. "I'll admit, I've broken it my fair share of times."

"Saint George breaking FBI policy? The world must be ending," Elliot snorted comically, tongue darting out to lick cream cheese off the side of his hand.

George shot the detective a surprised look. Not at being called a saint, but rather, the use of his given name. He'd grown so accustomed to being called Doc, Doctor Huang or just Huang, that hearing it was almost... peculiar. The only person he knew—aside from Hal and Jun—who used his first name, was Olivia. And even then, it was sparingly. He supposed it must be rather sad when one's own first name began to sound foreign to even them.

"So what's the other reason?" Elliot prodded, having missed the doctor's look as he was preoccupied with the cream cheese.

"The other reason?" George repeated. "I can't hold my liquor very well. The last thing I need is to get drunk in front of you lot. John would probably never let that one go."

"Just because you make a lousy drunk doesn't mean you can't go anyway," Elliot noted seriously.

"All the same, I'd much prefer to sit in the park and clear my head after a case," George informed him.

"Alone?"

"I don't object to company, but yes, usually alone," George said, looking decidedly busy as he screwed the lid back on the can of strawberry preservative. "Alex used to accompany me every so often."

Alex Cabot. That name sure brought back memories. He realized with a start that George probably didn't even know she was still alive... Their former A.D.A. was currently under the Witness Protection Program, forced to live a life that wasn't hers. She had to live the life of "Emily" now. As much as they'd all grown to love Casey, they really did miss her.

"So what exactly do you do on these outings of yours?" Elliot asked, moving away from the subject of Alex.

"Just as I said, I clear my head," George replied. "It's easy to forget about some of the horror stories we run into when you have time to be alone and think of other things."

"What kinds of other things?"

George paused, quirking an eyebrow in a rather bemused manner. "If I didn't know any better Detective Stabler, I'd say I was being interrogated."

"I'm just a naturally curious guy," Elliot replied innocently.

"All right, I'll humor you, if only to satisfy that insatiable curiosity of yours," George bounced back. "I contemplate the usual things... bills, the car needing an oil change, why I get out of bed at three in the morning to respond to a patient calling... things like that. Other times, I'll ponder over more personal matters, like family."

"Well the it's good to know I'm not the only one," Elliot interceded thoughtfully. "You ever think about them during a case?"

"Occasionally," George informed him. "That case we had a few years ago... with Darrel Guan? It made me think of my sister and my niece, though, it was a completely irrational fear considering they weren't even in the city."

"You're only human, Doc," Elliot reminded him. "Just because they weren't at risk, doesn't mean you can't worry. Especially when the case reminds you of them."

"It would seem we've opted to trade places," George quipped amusedly.

"How does that make you feel?" Elliot teased.

George grinned and appeared ready to reply with a witty remark of his own, when the phone rang. Crossing the short distance between the couch and the end table, he retrieved and answered it. Finishing off his bagel, Elliot watched the doctor run a hand through his hair distractedly and glance at his watch before replying into the phone. A few more words were exchanged—none of which he really caught—and the phone was once again gently placed in its rocker.

"I have to go see my patient," George stated simply.

"Okay, but I'm driving," Elliot said, already rising from the couch. "And this time I get to stay in the room... no buts, Doc."

Elliot drew a sense of satisfaction when George quickly turned and graced him with one of the most bewildered looks he'd ever seen. Apparently, that hadn't been the answer he was expecting. In all honesty, it hadn't been the answer Elliot wanted to give. He'd wanted to kindly inform the doctor that there was no way he would be allowed withing a one mile radius of that psycho. That was what he'd _wanted_ to say.

"Oh... well, all right," George managed to say, still giving Elliot a strange look as he disappeared down the hall to get ready.

* * *

Elliot Stabler was a man who was what one might call "acquainted" with the Bellevue Psych Ward. It was similar to that couple you see every year at the Christmas party. Sure, you know their names and their kids' names. You know where they work and who they're related to. But you don't really _know_ them. You don't know that behind the scenes, he's an alcoholic and she's been cheating on him. You don't know that their sixteen year-old daughter is snorting coke. 

This was his relation to Bellevue.

He passed through due to cases. He had seen a few patients here and there. But Elliot Stabler had never seen it the way George Huang sees it. It was completely different to when they'd strolled through last night. Now, patients, doctors and nurses alike were roaming the halls, going about their day-to-day. He was almost glad when at last they found the seclusion of the interview room. George looked to him as he folded his coat over the back of the chair.

"Before we begin, I'd just like to take the time to inform you about Charlie," he said resolutely.

"Fine," Elliot replied, hands in his pockets.

"He's in the advanced stages of neurosyphilis. You may remember him from a case you and Olivia handled two years ago," George informed him. "Although we've tried to treat him as best we could, in the end he was just too far along for us to be able to do much good. His dementia has lessened slightly, but he's been left with the mentality of a child."

"And I suppose you want me to feel sorry for him?" Elliot remarked casually.

"No, I don't expect you to," George replied. "He committed a very serious crime. However, I would like you to take into account that he's very ill... and most likely on his way out."

Elliot didn't have to hear it twice to know what the doctor meant. He glanced up when a relatively young man shuffled in, a flock of orderlies leading him to the table. He sat, his wide, emerald eyes taking in his surroundings before fixating on George, who sat at the other end of the table.

"Hello, Charlie. Are you feeling any better since last night?" George asked, once again reverting to a soft tone of voice.

Charlie glanced between George, Elliot and the table several times before shrugging slightly, picking at his nails. George looked back at Elliot before nodding in understanding.

"You remember Detective Stabler, don't you Charlie?" George asked.

Charlie nodded his head with an exaggerated motion, his sand colored lochs swaying with each jerk of his head. Elliot watched with curiosity, arms folded over his chest in a decidedly hostile manner. The guy didn't seem particularly violent today... but that didn't really mean anything.

"It's all right, he's not going to hit you," George consoled him.

"...not?" Charlie mumbled.

"No. He's not. Are you?" George asked, twisting in his seat to look at Elliot.

The detective made an attempt to smile, but judging by Charlie's reaction, it must have come out something more like a snarl. "No, I'm not."

_Unless you give me a reason to._

"There, you see?" George said.

"Mm-hmm," Charlie hummed affirmatively. "Still mad?"

George looked to Elliot for a response, who raised his eyebrows in mild surprise. "A bit."

"Sorry," Charlie said, sliding down in his seat so his eyes were just visible above the table. "George says it is good to say sorry for bad things."

"Yeah, it is," Elliot admitted.

George watched the exchange carefully before getting back to the matter at hand. "How are you feeling today?"

"Sleepy. And my head hurts," Charlie admitted

"I see. Well, we'll see what we can do about that," George replied. "Last night you were very scared. Do you still feel that way?"

Charlie shifted, gnawing thoughtfully on his thumb nail. "...little bit."

"What are you afraid of?"

"Dun wanna."

George looked to him levelly, proceeding carefully. "Charlie, I can't help if you don't tell me what you're afraid of."

"...uh-uh."

"All right, how about this? I'll tell you something that scares me and then you tell me something that scares you. Sound better?" George reasoned.

Charlie mulled over this, tucking his legs up onto his chair and rocking back and forth ever so slightly. At last, he acquiesced with a slight nod, looking to George expectantly. The doctor smiled.

"Okay... something that scares me? Having someone sneak up behind me in the dark," George said. "My sister used to do that to tease me when we were younger. Sometimes it can still be frightening, but all I have to do is turn around and see that no one's there. You see?"

Charlie nodded slightly.

"Good. Now it's your turn," George said.

"...I'm scared of the dark, too. There's someone... that I don't know tryin' t'sneak up on me. He wants me to go to the dark place," Charlie whispered, tears forming in the corner of his eyes as his rocking became more erratic. "An'... an' I never see him. But I think he's gonna come and get me soon."

"Do you know what he looks like?" George asked, frowning.

"He's like the dark," Charlie murmured.

George nodded, apparently reaching some conclusion. Elliot watched the two, his own mind trying to reach the conclusion that George seemingly already had. Was someone at Bellevue harassing him? Or was it just another delusion, stemming from his dementia? He didn't know. The appointment droned on until finally, Charlie could barely keep his eyes open long enough to form a sentence, and they were allowed to leave.

The doctor watched the detective pensively as they emerged from the ward. There was something going on in that head of his... and he had a pretty good idea as to what.

* * *

Upon returning to the apartment, George slumped into his usual chair, Elliot once again finding a seat on the couch. The doctor regarded him curiously for a moment. 

"You haven't showered in two days," he stated.

Elliot laughed. "You tryin' to tell me something, Doc?"

"No, I just thought you might want to get out of here for a while. You know, get cleaned up, see your kids..." George said, waving a hand airily.

"I already told you I'm not leaving," Elliot said, though admittedly the thought of seeing his kids was more than tempting. "But a shower is a good idea and I think I can leave you alone for twenty minutes or so. Don't worry, I brought my own towel."

Before George had time to reply, Elliot was already in the bathroom. He felt tempted to laugh at the oddness of the situation, but managed to squash it down by picking up a particularly gruesome crime scene photo...

* * *

Elliot had to admit the hot water felt good, especially after a sleepless night. It wasn't that he couldn't handle a few sleepless nights now and again, he'd just rather he didn't have to. He sighed as he pressed his head against the cool tile wall, the steaming water running across his broad shoulders in tickling rivulets. He recalled once, a few years ago, how Kathy had sneaked up behind him in the shower. She washed his back and worked out that crick in his neck... and she told him that she was thankful he didn't bring his work home. That he didn't talk about it. 

And where were they now? That seemed to be one of the reasons they were separated. That and his anger. He knew that was a problem... it often became a problem with anyone close to him. His wife, his partner, his colleagues... It wasn't as though he wanted to be angry, but sometimes he just couldn't help it. Sometimes the only way to keep himself from hitting someone else was to take his frustration out on the wall.

Letting the water run over his face, he wondered... should he have taken the Doc up on his offer to leave to see his kids? He would only have been gone for a short—no. No, he couldn't start second guessing himself. He told Cragen he was going to watch the Doc and he meant it. It was his assignment. It was his duty. The feeling of guilt nagged in the most pervasive manner imaginable. Stay. Go. Stay. Go. Staygostaygostaygo... stay. Sometimes he wished he weren't plagued by his thoughts so.

He exited the shower and got dressed, walking back into the room while still toweling his head. He was about to say something about grabbing a bite to eat when he noticed the doctor had fallen asleep. Again. He snorted a laugh and made to turn away, when something caught his eye. Slouching in the chair had caused the doctor's shirt to lift just ever so slightly in his slumber, exposing a large, ugly bruise. It looked almost black and faded to purple and to yellow; signs of healing.

The detective felt his jaw clamp. That idiot! No wonder he was sleeping so much... If that bruise was testament to anything, he must have gotten the shit beaten out of him. 'Just a couple of bruises and scrapes' his ass!

"Fuck," he hissed quietly, throwing the towel at the couch. "Fucking... _shit_."

He began pacing, once again feeling the need to hit something. He didn't know how long he had been doing it, but sometime during his private venting, the doctor had awoken and now regarded him in the most curious and worrisome manner.

"Elliot, what's the matter?" George asked.

"You. You're the matter," Elliot managed to grind out. "Why didn't you _tell me_ it was that bad?"

"It's not," George stated simply, already having caught on.

"Don't pull that evasive bullshit with me. I hate when you do that," Elliot snapped.

George sighed. They had been getting along so well... why the sudden mood swing? He looked to Elliot calmly, trying to rationalize the situation. "What difference does it make how bad it is? I'm healing fine enough."

"The point is that you don't feel you can trust me," Elliot fired back. "For as much as you say you do, you don't."

"You know that isn't true," George remarked.

"But it is," Elliot said, a cynical half-laugh escaping his lips. "I mean... Fuck, George, I'm just trying to make sure nothing happens to you! When I think about this I don't picture Liv, or Fin or John... I picture you because it happened to _you_. You're always trying to help me... God dammit, just this once, let me try and do the same for you. For once in your life put your pride aside and stop trying to pretend this never happened!"

George stared. This was _Elliot Stabler_ talking to him? Surely this must be some cruel, cosmic joke. He'd never felt so strangely moved... while being so sincerely affronted. Inhaling deeply, he leaned forward in his chair, hands folded before his face.

"Calm down and think about what you're saying," he said. "When have I ever given you any sort of inclination that I did not trust you? When have I ever shown that I was trying to pretend none of this had ever happened?"

"That's just it," Elliot pressed. "You don't _show_ any of it. You're the one who told me there was a big difference between feeling something and expressing it, right? Well I know you're not expressing everything you're feeling."

"Elliot I don't understand what you want from me," George sighed.

"I want you to stop trying to cover it up!" Elliot spat.

"Cover _what_ up?" George responded impatiently.

However, no sooner had he said this than did he find an extremely agitated Elliot Stabler directly before him. He opened his mouth to say something, but found his shoulders gripped tightly by a strong set of hands, pinning him down. He inhaled sharply in surprise and struggled, trying to push the detective off of him, but his hand was wrenched above his head. He hissed as his stitches tugged painfully, still struggling.

"...Elliot!"

He knew his voice was strangled by fear. The other man said nothing, just continued to hold him down. Their faces were mere inches apart and he became more panicked, more frantic. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't focus. All he could think of... All he could think of was...

"_Don't_."

Had it been any other moment, the doctor would have been ashamed as the word escaped as more of a pathetic squeak. However, it achieved the desired affect and Elliot relented, releasing him.

As for Elliot, well, it had achieved the desired affect for him as well. He'd been right all along. It had been there, deep in those dark eyes of his... raw fear. He wouldn't admit it, and yet suddenly thrown into that situation, neither could he deny it. That unmistakable emotion, radiated so plainly. He looked to the doctor now and felt his sense of triumph diminish.

"...what the _hell_ was that?"

Elliot was surprised. Surprised to hear the other's words laced with such menace. Then again, it couldn't have been pleasant to face something like that...

"I was trying to make you admit that you're afraid of something," Elliot stated.

"And you couldn't think of a better way to do so?" George snapped. "Christ, Elliot, you never think!"

Elliot opened and shut his mouth quickly, looking quizzical. "Look, I'm sure it wasn't pleasant, but you have to admit that—"

"No. This time you'll listen," George interceded. "You suppose I think too much? _You_ think too little. You never stop to consider the consequence of anything you do, Elliot. It only occurs to you after the fact. For instance, did you ever consider the ramifications of hitting Cunningham? Do you know how _severely_ you could have compromised the line-up? And this certainly isn't the first time, oh no. You have quite the impressive track record for _really_ fucking things up, don't you?"

Elliot was sure his jaw had just hit the floor. He'd meant to provoke the psychiatrist, but this was just plain crazy. And yet, had it been what he was looking for? He felt his own temper flare.

"Yeah, well I'm certainly not the only one," Elliot countered. "Come on, Doc... how many patients have you ruined for life? You know... had a little slip up."

"Don't try and turn the conversation," George growled. "I always take responsibility for my patients, but you... I've held my tongue long enough. Do you know how may times I've watched you continue to jeopardize a case? Perhaps you'll recall a certain schizophrenic whom you coerced a confession out of? Or a certain rapist you allowed to use your cell phone? You lack foresight and I'm honestly tired of having to keep quiet about it!"

"Oh, so push it all on me, huh?" Elliot snapped.

"I'm going to have to!" George retorted angrily. "Please, Detective Stabler, enlighten me. At what point did it seem like such a grand idea to imitate the manner in which my attacker pinned me down? Hmm? I'm hoping you can tell me because I'm having the most difficult time trying to figure it out by myself!"

Elliot paused, only now considering it.

"You wanted me to be honest about it, right? Well, then thank you very much for dragging those memories back for me," George continued. "I'm sick and tired of your crusade, Elliot. The fact that you're doing this to assuage your own guilt is fine. I don't mind. However, I _do_ mind being toyed with simply because I do not meet your standards as a victim. You think you know what I'm feeling? Don't you even _dare_ begin to be so presumptuous. I would have been fine if you'd left me well enough alone, but you just had to butt in. You just _had_ to try and prove that I was wrong, yet again. Wake up, Elliot. This isn't one of our usual, petty precinct squabbles we're dealing with... this is _my life_ and I'd be happy if you were kind enough to stay the hell out of it!"

His chest was heaving. He felt dizzy. He hadn't blow up like that... well... ever. He didn't like the way it made him feel; detached and lightheaded. He knew what he'd said had hurt the detective, though, he was almost sure the other was too proud to show he was wounded. Sinking into his chair, he held his head in his hands, just trying to compile his racing thoughts so he could begin to make sense of them. It wasn't working. He felt remorseful, more so because he was still angry.

"...you should go," he said lowly.

He didn't have to look up. His answer came in the form of quick, angry foot steps... and the door slamming. For a few minutes, he was alright, sitting alone in his apartment. He briefly reviewed the old saying that you can't miss what you never had. And it was true that he hadn't really missed having company because he usually had none. After having Elliot become something of a fixture... he missed it now. But Lord, he was confused. He almost wished Elliot were back, but at the same time, didn't think he could stand being within a five mile radius of the man.

What he'd done... He felt sick just thinking about it. He understood the detective's train of thought, but now the image of Elliot looming over him, pinning him down in that manner, was engraved into his mind's eye. He felt disgusted with the fact that Elliot had been partially right. He had been afraid... but that gave him no right to pull such a stunt.

It was strange. He cared for Elliot. He didn't want to have to feel this anger. Elliot was the last person he'd expected, or wanted, to make him feel so... violated. Again.

He fisted his hands in his hair, tugging sharply, as though that might somehow distract him from his other pain.

What the hell was wrong with him?

* * *

Elliot grated his teeth as he listened to the dull drone on the other end of the line as he waited for someone to pick up. He basically interpreted George's little rant as something along the lines of, "You ruined my life so I'd be grateful if you'd leave, fuck-you very much." Looking back, he admitted he'd been rash... but that wasn't any reason for... 

...whatever.

"Hello?"

"Liv, it's me," he said, feigning normalcy.

"Oh, hey. Something up? You sound kind of agitated," Olivia said.

Leave it to his partner. Either he was a terrible actor, or she knew him too well. He had a feeling it was a bit of both, though, he rather wished she weren't so intuitive sometimes.

"...no. Hey, listen, you think you could send someone over to Huang's to fill in for me?" Elliot asked.

"I _could_," Olivia said. "But I'd like a reason, first. You two have a fight or something?"

"_No_," Elliot snapped. Clenching his jaw at his lack of control, he tried again. He didn't need her to find out. "I mean... no. I just wanted to come down to the precinct to check out those security tapes again."

"Okay," Olivia sighed, sounding suspicious. "I'll get someone on it. As for those tapes, I've checked and re-checked them myself about a dozen times. I don't think you're gonna find anything, El."

"Yeah, well... I wanna take a look all the same," he replied.

There was a pause over the line, and for a moment, he wondered if he'd lost the call. But then the voice of his partner popped up again, quiet and comforting. He didn't want to admit who it reminded him of.

"El... are you okay?" Olivia asked.

"Yeah. I'm fine," he answered half heartedly. "I'll be there in a bit."

* * *

When he strolled into the precinct a half-hour later, he kept his eyes to the floor to make sure not to catch anyone's eye. He didn't really feel like talking. Finding the security tapes stacked and ready to watch with a note from Olivia—she was currently out questioning a suspect on another case—was a blessing in itself. Plopping down, he began reviewing them, trying to pick out something that he knew had to be there. He just wished he knew what that something was. 

After about two hours of this, he was aware that someone was standing behind him, and had been for some time. Eyes still glued to the screen, he didn't even bother to turn to greet him.

"Hey, Cap'n," he hailed.

"Elliot," Cragen said shortly.

Out of his peripheral vision, he noticed the Captain pull up a seat next to him and watch the video for a few minutes. He scratched his head once and leaned forward in his seat. Neither men spared the other a glance.

"So, want to tell me why you're really here?" Cragen asked, watching the video closely.

"There's still something on this video. I know there is, but I don't know what," Elliot insisted.

"I see," Cragen replied in a tone that clearly stated he didn't believe him. "Well, I find it hard to believe you'd abandon your post to come and ruin your eyesight by sitting two inches away from the screen, _just_ because of a gut feeling."

"That's all there is to it," Elliot shrugged.

"You and the Doc are pissed at each other, I take it," Cragen mused. "You know, I wondered how long you'd last. We had bets going. Speaking of which, John owes me a date with President Jackson."

"So we had one of our usual pissing contests... big deal," Eliot shrugged.

"Something tells me that's not quite it," Cragen prodded knowingly.

Leave it to dear old Dad to try and "lovingly" wrangle the truth out of you.

"I pushed to far. He pushed back harder than I thought he would," Elliot stated simply.

"You two fight like a couple of old women," Cragen said with a casual grin. "So, you messed up. Did you apologize?"

"...no. I left. He said to leave," Elliot grunted.

"He actually verbally told you to leave? It must have been some pissing contest, then," Cragen admitted. "Look, Elliot, far be it from me to give you advice, but hear me out. You're both horribly stubborn... everyone at the precinct is. I think it's a pre-requisite. So, for once, why don't you try and take the high ground? Go over and apologize. You two have been at each other's throats since the moment he set foot in here. And it's easy to see why. You're threatened by the fact that he's so knowledgeable and that you often times need to rely on his profiling capabilities. In the same sense, he's probably never had someone question his theories or keep him on his toes in the manner you do. If the two of you managed to find a way to respect each other professionally, you might just come to realize that you work well together."

Cragen looked to Elliot, waiting or some kind of response. But the detective's eyes were fixed on the screen in front of him. He had paused the bit of footage, and motioned vaguely with one hand for Cragen to look closer. The Captain leaned in, curious over his findings.

"Tell me who you see here," Elliot murmured.

He played the footage back. A man walked through the lobby, just barely visible from the corner of the camera, distractedly blowing his nose in a handkerchief. He had slicked back blond hair and angular glasses, with a manila folder in one hand. Cragen very nearly gawked.

"What's Kramer doing there?"

"Captain!"

Both Elliot and Cragen whipped around to see a uniform standing breathless in the doorway.

"One of your perps, Kyle Cunningham. He's been beaten to death by a fellow inmate."

"You're shitting me," Cragen groaned.

"Cap'n, where's Kramer?" Elliot asked distractedly.

"He left about an hour ago... said he wanted to ask the Doc some questions," Cragen noted, paling.

"Dammit!" Elliot cursed, slamming his palms on the table. He whipped out his cell phone and dialed George's cell, waiting impatiently. "Come on. Come on, come on, pick up!"

It went to his voice mail. Alright... maybe he was just angry with Elliot and wouldn't pick up. He was about to ask Cragen to try instead, but the Captain was already two steps ahead of him, dialing the phone. He paused.

"Nothing," Cragen said, already prepared to try to reach him by another number.

"My God, why didn't I see it? Why didn't I—" Elliot paused as his cell phone rang. His heart skipped a beat as he quickly flipped it open, not even bothering to see who it might be. "Hello?"

"...Detective Stabler!"

His brow furrowed in confusion for a moment, before recognition dawned on him. "Agent Kimura?"

"Yes, it's me, I... I don't know where to begin," Kimura said frantically, his voice sounding odd and detached. "Hal's gone. She's been taken and... I don't know how long I've been out for. They could be after George too... oh, God, I don't know where they've taken her..."

Elliot felt like a stone had dropped into his stomach. Everything was happening too quickly, all at once. Why hadn't he stayed? Why couldn't he have seen it sooner? Cragen fumed as he slammed the phone back into its rocker, not having been able to reach the psychiatrist through any means. Yanking the phone back up, he began dialing the FBI, barking at the uniform to get Olivia, John and Fin.

"Kimura, are you there still?" Elliot managed at last.

"Yes..." Kimura muttered distractedly.

"Alright. I want you to meet me at George's place," Elliot said, already making a run for the door. "I'm on my way there now."

"On your... You mean you're not there already?" Kimura asked incredulously. "Weren't you the one assigned to watch him?"

Elliot gritted his teeth uncomfortably as he hopped in his car. "Yeah. I was."

* * *

Ah, I feel better. Something I forgot to mention... the part where Elliot was remembering Kathy washing his back in the shower? That was a deleted scene from Season 2. I took the liberty of un-deleting it. :3

I cracked up watching the SVU character insights the other night. B.D. can be so incredibly cute sometimes! Like when he was talking about the "fight scene" in Execution, he basically said: "Yeah, I'm glad I wasn't the one who had to fight Nick Chinlund (Matt Brodus). I could just sort of, you know... pass out, and that was okay." Instant squeeness ensued. My mother and I thought that was great. I absolutely loved how they did the Character Insights... they're just awesome! I have some interview things from my Season 5 DVDs (Dann Florek, B.D. Wong and Ice-T) that I ripped and uploaded onto my YouTube account, if anyone would like a gander. My account name is TheSleepingSage. They're rather fun.

Anyway... major cliffie. I'm incredibly evil to Elliot, George and you guys. And even though I can't write on my laptop, I'll be taking the Muses with me and jotting things down the old fashioned way. Pen. And paper. Guh... So, hopefully you enjoyed this chapter... maybe? And I'll see you in a week!


	8. Chapter VIII: Damages

Oh.

My.

**_GOD._**

I'm really sorry guys! A lot's happened since my last update and I've just been so busy with the new school year and multitudes of other things that I've barely had time to write. I probably would have gotten this out last month, but I ran into a bit of an issue. You see, my family and I found an abandoned baby rabbit in our back yard. Barely three weeks old. Well, of course we couldn't leave the poor thing, so we took him in and began caring for him. We went to ask people at pet stores about how to do it, too. I was so thrilled because I became "mom" to the little dear. It was so strange how he would perk up whenever I would come home (probably because I was the one feeding him). Unfortunately, he died in my arms a little after two weeks and I've been rather distraught, pathetic though it may seem. There's just something about caring for another life, only to see it snatched away that just rips a piece out of you. And I still can't help but feel that there must hae been something else I could have done...

But it's no use dwelling (which I say, but will do anyway).

Now, back to business. Show of hands, who's been watching vigilantly on Tuesday nights? -jumps around like a spaz- Tonight's was particularly good only because we saw dear George for more than five minutes and Elliot was surprisingly calm, which was an interesting turn. And Morales! He was there, too! But the lack of Munch disgruntles me. Chester Lake disgruntles me. No Dad, either. );

...and what was up with Liv's hair? I was like: "Haha, hey look the episode's start--HOSHITE." Seriously. oo

Anywho, thanks for those of you who have stuck around (or pestered me to update), you lovely reviewers, you:

**LilyHellsing:** I rather liked Pissed-Off!George and WTF!Elliot from last chapter. Rather interesting. Yeah, Kramer's a guy I love to hate... like Umbridge from Harry Potter. Blech! Execution was on tonight again. It reminded me that I needed to update. And so, despite not getting any sleep last night and having a horrible stomach ache, I update, for you, loyal readers. Red on! -gallops into the sunset-

**POPpop: **Creative use of pestering by reviewing past chapters earns you an A+ young'n! Ha, seriously, I'm glad you were interested enough to prod me into manking sure I updated. This one moves a little more slowly, but the next will be better. After this, you've got one or two chapters left. And then a sequel. Because I've always wanted to complete a fic and write a sequel. Awesomeness just MIGHT ensue.

**laurahalvey: **Why thank you! I'm in awe of your awe. The Cragen-Muse has been getting rather restless lately... but I think Elliot-Muse and George-Muse enjoyed the time off. Now time to bother them. Fufufufu.

**psychotic KAT:** Hohoho, you'll see what happens. I think it will be rather satisfying. And we Gryffindors love to associate with everyone. HUG ME.

**Scifirogue Kane:** Hullo sick--I mean--_new_ people! Hrm. Gotta stop watching so much House. Huh. Anyway, nice to see a new face, and thank you very much for taking the time to read. Strangulation is kind of scary, though... so I'll try and update sooner.

**Gunieapiglover: **Whoa. Uh... thanks? Ha, I'm glad you're enjoying it that much. Stabler/Huang doesn;t get nearly enough love, so I like to think I'm giving it a little love by braving through the sea of EO shippers. It's pretty scary sometimes, I'll tell you that. Yes, B.D. is really gay in real life. Hell, all the more reason for me to want to tackle-glomp him. I actually just realized he was in Jurassic Park when I watched it the other night. Squeeing ensued. Yet, tragically, like SVU, he had a max of about five seconds of screentime. -pout-

**Cardinal Robbins: **Yep, that's me. I'm actually looking forward to seeing how this wraps up... mainly because I have a multitude of ideas floating around. And we all love Munchkin so much... to defile his character is blasphemy!

**NeoTroi79:** I don't think my inbox minds at all! Reviews are like a fanfiction writer's crack (but you knew that). Glad you decided to read it!

**J0:** Eheh... "Hngblargh" is one of my many disgruntled utterances in anomatopeoia form. I have three brothers, so I definitely know what you mean with the poking thing. That and beating the ever loving crap out of each other with Sock 'em Boppers. Oh-ho, trying to steal Elliot, are you? Hmm, you'll have to be sneaky about it or George might throw the DSM-IV at you. Yeah, the thing about Feds not being allowed to drink was my own little reference towards the movie "Breach" which it's stated in. I have no idea if it's true, but it seemed like a funny idea to toy around with. Yeah, poor Elliot and George were pretty messed up last chapter. But that's what love does: it ruins your life! xD

**JOnotEO:** Thanks! I'll try and update as soon as possible. And welcome aboard.

**PrueHalliwell2000: **Don't worry, Elliot's going to go all mushy pretty soon. I have a rather sweet scene picked out for the very end that just might tickle you pink.

**Mandara: **Always glad to see another fan! Thanks very much for stopping in and taking the time to read and review.

**Metalchick36:** Thanks a bunch! I hope I won't be disappointing you.

* * *

**DISCLAIMER: **I do not own _Law & Order: Special Victims Unit_ nor any of its associated characters. However, season four is finally coming out on DVD on December 9th, so I hope to procure that... and watch it until my eyes bleed. Because there's this really awesome scene in one episode where George is telling Alex where he stands on the death penalty and--... -yammers on and on-

* * *

**Chapter VIII: **Damages

Elliot jumped out of his car, slamming the door as he hurried down the sidewalk. He had to come to a screeching halt to prevent himself from running headlong into Kimura, who was standing on the steps. He held one hand to his head, looking disoriented, a trail of blood dripping from just under his hairline. Elliot shook him roughly by the shoulder, getting his attention.

"You okay?" he questioned, eager to get upstairs.

"Yes, I... I've just arrived," Kimura managed to reply.

"Then let's go," Elliot said shortly, already dashing up the steps.

He heard Kimura following close behind as they reached the door to George's apartment. Elliot raised a fist and hammered on the door, calling out to the psychiatrist... but in vain, for there was no answer. Drawing his gun, and looking to Kimura to do the same, he reeled back and kicked the door in. The two men moved in quickly and searched the apartment, calling for the doctor.

"He's not here, Detective," Kimura said at last.

"No... he's not," Elliot said, feeling pained. "So where is he then?"

He looked around the room. Nothing seemed out of place. No signs of struggle. And no signs of the doctor, either. Could it be they were over reacting? No, that couldn't be. If Wordsworth had been taken and Kimura had his head beat in over it, then there was no coincidence in the fact that Kramer had come to visit George, who was now missing.

But that didn't help them find him.

* * *

_George jumped slightly when he heard a knock at the door. For a moment, he wondered if Elliot had returned for a second round of shouting... but decided that was not so. Taking a moment to regain his composure, he crossed the room to the door and looked to see who it was. Recognizing him from the precinct, he opened the door._

"_Doctor Huang?" Kramer greeted._

"_Yes and you must be Harold Kramer?" George replied._

"_Ah, yes... I didn't think you'd recognize me," Kramer admitted. "I am sorry to bother you, but I was looking over something and needed your opinion on the matter. I hope I'm not imposing...?"_

"_No, not at all. Please come in," George said, opening the door wider to allow the man in._

_He sighed inwardly. At the moment, company was the last thing he wanted. He'd much rather curl up in his chair and try and lose himself in his work. Or rather, try and lose Elliot in his work. Never-the-less, the psychiatrist in him just couldn't refuse one of his fellows. After Kramer accepted his offer of something to drink, he heard the other speak from behind him as he fixed a cup of tea._

"_Correct me if I'm wrong, but I was under the impression that Detective Stabler was supposed to be guarding you," Kramer stated._

"_Yes, well... I told him to take a break," George informed him flatly._

"_Ah. I see," Kramer replied, sounding closer. "Still, shouldn't someone be here in his place?"_

"_No, I believe I'm quite all right," George insisted._

"_Really? Because something positively dreadful could happen while he's away. Even if that something is something you deserve, George."_

* * *

Kimura looked to Elliot with a hint of suppressed excitement.

"Detective, do you know if George had his cell phone on him?" he asked.

"I'm not sure..." Elliot replied, at first looking quizzical. But then it dawned on him. "Of course. You Feds have tracking chips in your cells, don't you?"

"Precisely. I know Hal had neither her cell or her pager, but if George somehow had either one of them, we should be able to trace him," Kimura said, brightening at the thought.

"Good, I'll get Morales on that," Elliot said, already whipping out his cell phone.

"Wait, wouldn't it be easier to have one of our guys do it?" Kimura interceded.

"I've never trusted Feds much," Elliot said, waiting for the other to pick up.

* * *

George grimaced, hesitantly cracking an eye open. Even the dim light was displeasing, and he immediately squeezed his eyes shut again, not at all sure of where he was. However, the feeling of something—or someone—squirming next to him was enough to say that he had some kind of company. It was only when he felt an elbow jutting into his ribcage that he made any sort of response.

"Are you awake?"

Squinting still, he glanced to the side; feeling both relief and dismay at the sight of Hal. She regarded him with a look of utmost concern, a thin trail of dried blood leading down her jawline. In attempting to move, he found his arms were bound behind him and to his sides. Tightly. He could see she was bound similarly. She offered him a grin.

"I was beginning to worry that you weren't going to wake at all," she admitted.

"I'm fine. More importantly, I'd like to know where we are and what's happened to you," George replied evenly.

"What... this little scratch? It's nothing at all. I'm far more worried about my dear Jun," Hal said. "As for where we are, well, I'm afraid I couldn't say."

"And neither can we, in case inquiring minds would like to know," came a voice behind him.

"Tony?" George questioned, attempting to twist around.

"Yes, it's me. Logan and Charlie are here, too," Anthony Christopher responded.

"Hurrah," Logan Freeman drawled, somewhere beside George.

"Not that it isn't nice to see you, but all the same I'd rather not be here," Charles Yates added, somewhere behind him.

Obviously they were seated in a sort of circle with their backs to each other, judging by where their voices were coming from. He couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt, knowing that they most certainly had to have been dragged into this because of him. They lapsed into an awkward silence.

"Well, I feel I must say," Hal began, "that this is the absolute _worst_ reunion I've ever been to."

"...do you have a concussion or something?" Yates asked uncertainly.

"Oh, come on Charlie... you know her. Always has to get her _word's worth _in," Freeman chirped.

"Oh please. That joke wasn't funny back when we were in school, why do you suppose it would be now?" Yates replied.

"I don't know, I always rather liked it," Christopher said.

"That's because you're easily amused, dear," Hal said consolingly.

"Not that I want to interrupt, but I think we should be focusing more on what's going on at present," George interceded.

"Ah, very true," Freeman said knowingly.

"Well, I can tell you that we're in a warehouse on the docks and that's about all I've been able to ascertain in the time I've been here," Christopher informed them with a sigh.

"A warehouse by the docks? How horrendously cliché," Hal said, sounding comically disappointed.

"Cliché or classic?" Freeman corrected.

"Oh, certainly cliché. There's nothing classy at all about this," Hal snorted.

George shook his head. Leave it to Hal to try and lighten the mood with comical banter. However, he wasn't sure the situation warranted it, considering their position. It seemed quite dire at this point.

"Well, you two are with the FBI, isn't there something you can do?" Christopher asked.

"George is not Bruce Wayne, as you may have noticed. And unless the FBI has begun handing out utility belts and forgot to tell me, then there's not much we can do," Hal noted with an impatient sigh.

"...unless," George mumbled, squirming slightly.

"What is it?" Hal asked.

"My pager. Is it still hooked on my belt?"

"...I think it's—yes. It's still there. Which means..." Hal said letting her sentence drop off.

"We can be tracked," George finished.

The small group heaved a collective sigh. Now, at least, there was a possibility that they would be rescued. It was just a matter of someone knowing they were gone and using that information to their advantage. For a brief moment, George's thoughts wandered to Elliot. He wondered if the detective was still steaming over their encounter. Hal seemed to sense his distress, though it was no surprise.

"You and Elliot have had an argument?" Hal asked quietly.

"I suppose you could say that," George admitted.

"Who's Elliot?" Freeman wondered.

"A Detective in the Special Victims Unit that I work with," George informed him.

"Good old Irish chap," Hal added. "Bit of a hot head, though."

"And so I suppose this Elliot is our would-be rescuer?" Yates queried, sounding skeptical.

"At this moment in time, I can't be certain," George replied, feeling rather frustrated with the whole thing.

"I'm willing to bet you he'll show up," Hal said encouragingly. "And hopefully he'll lug my darling fiance along with him."

"I'd be thankful for just about anyone at this point," Christopher cared to point out.

"I find that hard to disagree with," Freeman added.

"Yes, at this point, stuck in a warehouse on the docks in the winter of my discontent is not so grand," Hal said.

"...it's autumn, Wordsworth," Yates sighed.

"Yes, but _the autumn of my discontent_ is not nearly so dramatic," Hal informed him. "It sucks the significance right out of it."

"My, having fun, are we?"

George felt a shiver run down his spine at the sudden statement. His companions quickly lapsed into silence, turning their heads as best they could to catch a glimpse of their captor. Harold Kramer looked eerily ominous, standing in the shadows where a light bulb had broken, light glinting off his spectacles. He grinned triumphantly as he began to slink towards them, circling them with a look not unlike that of a snake. He was holding a paper bag in one hand, which he brought to his lips and tilted upwards, downing the contents.

"Oh, what fun we shall have."

* * *

"Yeah. Yeah. I got it, thanks Reuben," Elliot said, watching Kimura scribble down the address he'd dictated.

"Captain's been breathing down my neck, so I'd expect Liv and the others out there sometime soon," Morales replied over the line.

Elliot heaved a sigh of relief. "That's great, thanks."

"All right, good luck."

He quickly stowed his cell phone in his pocket, pulling what he was sure was not an entirely legal U-Turn—he didn't really care at the moment—and speeding towards the address he'd been given. Kimura, who was riding shotgun, stowed his own phone away, glancing quickly at Elliot.

"I just finished placing a call to the Bureau. They'll have some of our guys down there soon," Kimura informed him.

Elliot wrinkled his nose at the thought. But in this situation, he supposed more help would be all the better, no matter where it was from.

"All right," he said. "Just make sure they don't swarm the place. The last thing we need is for that fucker Kramer to get spooked and... do something we'll all regret..."

He couldn't quite bring himself to say what he'd been thinking. The thought of George being killed—and being killed while he was supposed to be being watched by Elliot—pained him. He just couldn't imagine having to walk into work every day, fully expecting to see that familiar, snarky smirk... and find nothing. He couldn't imagine having to live with the constant knowledge that he'd let the doctor down, that he hadn't been there when the other needed him.

"Detective, we won't be saving anyone if you don't focus!" Kimura hollered suddenly, gripping his seat until his knuckles turned white.

Elliot realized he'd begun to stray across the double-yellow line and quickly righted himself. Right. He was right. He couldn't afford to get them both killed before they had a chance to get there. He nodded jerkily, his movements stiff and coordinated as though he were a puppet, guided by destiny's strings.

"So do we know anything about this guy? Anything we can use as ammunition?" Elliot asked.

"Not that I can think of," Kimura said, massaging his temple. "He's not FBI, so he must have been referred to you from an outside source. That or he pulled some strings to get the SVU position."

"So you're thinking he's been working us all along?"

"I can't really say. That may have been his intention..."

"This is so... ridiculous," Elliot fumed. "Why the hell is he even after George in the first place? Or anyone else, for that matter?"

"Again, I can't say. I suppose we'll find out when we arrive."

"If he so much as looks at 'em the wrong way, I swear I'll..."

His sentence diminished into disgruntled grumbling, promises of death and equally painful dismemberment. In any time of crisis, he's always been able to rely on the Church, to rely on his parish's pastor to provide some sort of answer. To provide some sort of solace for his soul. But he knew, deep down... he knew. If this situation turned out the way he prayed it wouldn't, then all the holy water in the world couldn't wash the doctor's blood off his hands.

* * *

George tensed reflexively as Kramer circled. He couldn't help but be reminded of a shark, or perhaps a prowling lion. He could decide to pounce any minute. Or maybe he'd draw it out as long as he wanted. Most likely the latter. After some length of time, he managed to speak around the lump in his throat, surprising himself with the level of calm he managed to maintain.

"I don't suppose you'd be willing to tell us where we are or why we're here?"

Kramer paused in his trance-like pacing.

"You didn't receive my poem?" he asked.

"Yes, we did. And it was rubbish," Hal grunted. "Note that it doesn't explain exactly _why_ you decided to drag us here."

"I would have thought that much would have been obvious," Kramer sighed.

"No. Pray, enlighten us," Hal answered, sounding none-too-pleased.

"I suppose there's no harm," Kramer decided, walking away for a moment.

George quickly looked to Hal, his eyes dark with worry. "Hal, you mustn't be so reckless. You might think you can stand up to him but you have to remember that it's not only _your_ life you need to be concerned about now. That's one of the responsibilities of being a mother that you have to consider."

She opened her mouth as though wanting to reply, but snapped it shut quickly, appearing suddenly morose. The warning had obviously taken the effect he'd wanted. He knew what she'd been doing, trying to avert their captor's attention from him. And he appreciated it, it was just... she really couldn't afford to do so. Before anyone could ponder the matter further, Kramer had returned, dragging a chair with him.

He seated himself in it slowly, crossing one leg over the other and folding his hands in his lap, studying them. The words _smug bastard_ flitted through George's mind, and he struggled to quash them.

"Now, you wished to know why you're here?" Kramer asked.

"Yes," George answered shortly.

"Well, back at school you five were quite the little group, now, weren't you? I don't suppose you even remember that I attended classes with you," Kramer pointed out.

The five shared a confused look.

"Of course you wouldn't. After all, back then I was still known as Gabriel Getchel," Kramer said lightly.

"Getchel... Getchel... Getchel..." George murmured slowly under his breath, trying to jog his memory. His head still swam eerily, as though a veil had been placed over the majority of his rational thought.

"Ringing any bells?"

"That guy that always used to sit one table away from us in the library when we studied," Christopher noted suddenly.

And with that came recognition. George went back, momentarily, to the days they would spend studying. Hours flying by as they were immersed in their books and their conversations and their notes. Immersed in their own talent. And while they were so preoccupied, a shy young man had always sat a table away, alone. His bright eyes shone behind his thick spectacles and he would occasionally stop to push them back up the bridge of his nose or to brush away his light blonde hair. And when he looked across the way at a young red-head, voice bright and merry with laughter, he would blush and take refuge in his studies.

"You. The second highest ranked student in our class," George said.

Yes, that's right," Kramer informed them, removing his glasses to polish them with a cloth he whipped from his pocket. "You five were joined at the hip then, weren't you? Especially you two."

George quirked a quizzical eyebrow. Their captor's gaze was focused on both him and Hal as he spoke. Just what was he playing at? The doctor shifted lightly, trying to get some blood flowing back into his hands, as they were bound rather tightly.

"Yes, Hal and I were rather close," he admitted.

"I fail to see why that pertains to our current situation," Hal added for good measure.

"Same here," Christopher chirped. "Not to mention I've been here longer than anyone at this point."

"I don't believe you understand what I'm driving at," Kramer sighed. "You were really _quite_ close, weren't you?"

Then he understood just where it was all headed. And he didn't like it. Not one bit. Similarly, Hal had seemed to have caught on, for her jaw was set at a rather rigid angle, belaying her obvious displeasure. Only Christopher, Yates, and Freeman seemed to remain in the dark. George considered that a small blessing.

"Tell me then..."

As he spoke, Kramer rose and crouched in front of George, their faces mere inches apart. The scent of alcohol on his breath was pungent, and George had to fight the reflex to draw back.

"...did you enjoy fucking her?"

"_That_ is what this is about?" Christopher exploded. "A drunken one-night stand? Oh, you truly are pathetic, you are."

"Funny," Kramer hissed. "I don't recall asking for your opinion."

"Too bad because you have it," Christopher retaliated. "Just because you never had the balls to ask her out doesn't give you any right to pull this kind of shit, you hear me?"

Kramer's left eye twitched, and he reached for something under his coat.

"You coward. You arrogant, self-serving prick. You _waste _of human life, you have no right to do this. Does it make you feel important? Just because you didn't get the girl you wanted and you were never as good as George, you feel the need to mend your wounded ego by pulling an utterly idiotic stunt like this," Christopher growled.

"Tony, that's enough," George hissed urgently.

By this point, the psychiatrist was able to see what had been pulled from beneath Kramer's coat. He swore his heart stopped for an instant as Kramer raised the gun and aimed it at him. And then he fired.

* * *

It was all Elliot could do to keep from slamming the door of the vehicle shut and marching up to the warehouse to give Kramer what was coming to him. Thankfully, logic had ruled out that option and so he quietly ducked behind a large supply crate with Kimura. He looked to the FBI agent questioningly.

"We can do this a few ways..." he mentioned.

"Preferably something that won't have us noticed," Kimura replied.

"Right. We don't know just where they are or how many we're dealing with," Elliot murmured.

"You don't suppose we should wait for back-up?" Kimura cared to mention.

Elliot gnawed on his bottom lip thoughtfully. It had been a passing though, really. He frowned to himself as he answered. "I'm not sure we can afford to wait. We don't know how long they'll take to get here or what kind of state things are in over there."

"True. I can't say I'm not worried," Kimura admitted with a slow sigh. "Together then?"

"I'll take the front, you swing around back," Elliot said, jerking his head in a general direction.

"Understood. I'll see you inside, then," Kimura answered.

Elliot straightened from his crouched position and began to move swiftly toward the entrance of the warehouse. Hopefully Kramer might have been careless enough to leave it unlocked so that he might be able to sneak in all the quieter. Reaching the large, rusted door, he took a slow, deep breath and made sure his gun was ready in case needed it. He hoped he didn't. However that hope quickly diminished when he heard the last thing he would have wanted to hear:

Gunshots.

* * *

Whew! Chapter comlete and another lovely cliffie for you all to enjoy. Now, I need to go to sleep because I'm exhausted... Stupid research paper. Anywho, I hope to see you all next chapter!


	9. Chapter IX: Closure

Man, am I beat. Ugh, I've had a bad case of strep with another virus on top of it for the past week. No fun at all, and it made it hard for me to write. So apologies on the delay in updating!

Well folks, it looks like we've reached the last chapter of the fic. Awwwwwwww... But fear not! For should you enjoy the last chapter here, I've already begin writing a follow up fic which will be named (oozing with creativity) "Analyze That"! Yay! Or not yay. That depends.

I just want to take a minute to thank all fo you for sticking with me thus far. I know I'm not the easiest author to deal with and my updating can be sporadic at best, but it means a lot that you continued to read! Reviews don't make the story, but they certainly help a lot. Seeing what you guys left me helped me to shape the story into something better (hopefully) and something that I pray you've enjoyed. In short, enjoy the last chapter and thanks for sticking it out, folks.

**NeoTroi79:** Yeah, a bit of a cliffie there! It'll all resolve in this chapter, though. Well... mostly.

**LilyHellsing:** Hee-hee. yeah, that's kind of the humor of it all, really. "We're a bunch of FBI agets and psychiatrists... why can't we get out of this?!" Team Brain Trust over there, really.

**Scifirogue Kane:** Flying monkey? Its kidnapping my muses! -jumps ineffectually for her Cragen-Muse-

**laurahalvey: **Yeah, I wanted to end it with a bang, as it were. But sorry about the wait! Yeah, things are pretty hectic on my end. Busy, busy, busy... and sick. Blech. So, I hope this last chapter is satisfying!

**J0:** That's our Elliot! Sometimes I can't help but picture him as a stubborn little kid. It has to be done his way and if it isn't, then too bad because he's going to MAKE it his way. Yes, I believe they're a rather lively bunch. That scene was particularly enjoyable to write just out of sheer giggles. And trust me, these two were _so_ made for each other. It's that love/hate thing that we just can't get enough of. Poor George needs a past! Otherwise he's just Huang-bot... and nobody wants that.

**popPOP: **Tee-hee. You said hippo. Yeah, I was actually just starting to feel better about Piper. But then last week my uncle's dog had to be put down. She was such a good old gal... I knew her longer than I've known one of my younger brothers. She was alwys so close to me that I feel like I lost a sibling or something. But anyway... Yeah, that thing with Hal was basically how they both found out that either of them having a certain amount of alcohol was pretty much a bad idea. -laugh-

**JOnotEO:** Well, thanks a lot! I do try quite a bit with this fic, so it's good to see you've enjoyed it.

**Concubine99:** Yeah, Kramer's a party pooper. Bustin' in and getting in the way of our EG time... D:

**psychoticKAT: **At the very end of the last chapter, if I recall correctly. Stuff went down with cat hairs and surveilance tapes. Yeah, it was great. And Liv's hair freaked me out. A lot. Thankfully, it was back to normal, last I checked. And Munch! MUNCH!!

**WesEric:** Thanks so much! And... here you go!

**Princess ofTennis05: **Another new EGer! Yay! -hugs- I love meeting new fans of the pairing. Yes, unfortunately there isn't as much of it as I would like. However, there is a nifty little LiveJournal community dedicated to the pairing called _Strangle Me_. It's fantastic. Really. Glad you decided to read!

**Guineapiglover:** -cough- Yeah, I tend to do that... y'know start a story... and never finish it. But not this one! This on was my _baby_. I absolutely had to finish it. I guess I always tried to write Kramer a little weirder. Help you stalk BD? WOULD I EVER! Can you say _dream come true_? -google eyes- Ah, DS, huh? I've never tried that.

And now... on with the rest of it!

NOTE: "Daijyoubu desu ka? Ukekotae kudasai!" translates roughly to: "Are you all right? Please answer!" and "Doushite naiteiru no?" translates to: "Why are you crying?"

**

* * *

****DISCLAIMER: **I do not own _Law & Order: Special Victims Unit_. That pleasure belongs to dear ol' Dickie Boy. But if what I heard about Elliot going blind is true, then it better be George there comforting him instead of Olivia, or there will be a bone to pick with me, sir. And why do you keep rejecting my transcript for _SVU the Musical_?! -weeps-**

* * *

**

**Chapter IX:** Closure

For a moment, Elliot stopped breathing. Gunshots? _Gunshots?_ Gunshots meant a gun. A gun aimed at someone. A someone who could be George.

He gritted his teeth and let out a rather forced sigh. There had only been a single gunshot. No more.

_Pull it together, Stabler._

He wondered vaguely if Kimura was more aware of the situation than he, but at this point in time there was no way of contacting the agent in order to find out. Which meant he'd just have to wing it. No problem with that.

Gripping his firearm close, he maneuvered until he was standing next to the door. Reaching out as gently as possible, a feat for him in this moment of anxiety, he tested the door handle. It was rusted and squeaked horribly. He cursed vehemently under his breath, hoping he had gone unnoticed.

* * *

George swore his heart had stopped. He would rather not have opened his eyes, preferring to keep them closed; protected from reality. But a shrill, terrified scream from Hal, forced them open. He looked around. He hadn't been shot? It was aimed right at him, so who, then? Hal was unharmed, but seemed petrified beyond measure. He twisted around in vain to try and ascertain what had happened. Freeman's pained holler made it clear for him."Oh my God. Tony, oh my _God_. Jesus _Christ_. Fuck! _Tony_. You can't be dead, you bastard! _Wake the fuck up!_" This subsided into quiet sobbing. All George could do was sit, stupefied by the thought. If he had been able to turn around, he would have seen the gaping hole through the back of Anthony Christopher's head, but all he could manage was to listen to Freeman's quiet sobs and Hal's strangled hiccups as she attempted to quiet her crying. 

Kramer, however seemed the picture of utter delight. In his mind, it must have been the equivalent of quieting a rather irksome bird; one that squawked too much for its own good. But more than that, George knew he was absolutely reveling in their misery and their fear. As much as he hated to admit it, the man had them in the palm of his hand.

"I don't suppose any of you will be speaking up again any time soon," Kramer said in silky tones.

George certainly hoped not. His group wasn't particularly known for silence, but had been rather famous for shooting their mouths off on occasion, more often than not in response to one of their professors. But now was not the time for their renowned back-sass. At this point, all he wanted was for them to remain quiet and for this to be over.

He bristled as Kramer drew closer to him once again, gun dangling from one hand. He gritted his teeth and somehow managed to meet their captor's gaze even as he felt cold steel pressed against his temple. Kramer grinned.

"George, George, George. Always the pillar aren't you? Always there for others to lean on," Kramer cooed. "It was ever so lovely to see you crack, just once."

He didn't—wouldn't—allow himself to draw his gaze away. There was no way he could gain control of the situation, but he could at least stop himself from falling further into the control of the other. In all honesty, he was scared beyond measure. He had never felt his heart race with such fear; not even when he'd seen Matthew Brodus lunge at him in that prison cell.

"Well, I would just _love_ to take you out right now, but that wouldn't be nearly as fun. I want to see you suffer a little first. But how to do so? It's proving to be quite a problem," Kramer said with a frown.

George felt Hal blindly groping for his hand. He squeezed hers once in some vague form of reassurance. Things would turn out alright. Someone had undoubtedly realized they were missing by now and it was only a matter of time until they were tracked here.

"Hey, Kramer!"

Kramer looked up quite suddenly, standing and crossing the room. Their voices were hushed, but George managed to catch most of it.

"Found him snooping around outside. Managed to take our other two out before we got him."

"I see. My, how unfortunate. Terrible... he's bleeding all over the floor."

"What should we do with him?"

"Leave him, I suppose. He's one of theirs. Keep an eye out, however, as I'm sure that Detective must be here somewhere as well."

That was the last statement that George bothered to pay attention to. He could feel Hal struggling violently next to him and he began twisting around to try and see. He knew immediately what was going on when Hal began calling frantically in Japanese.

"JUN!! Daijyoubu desu ka? Ukekotae kudasai!"

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Jun Kimura in a crumpled heap on the floor. Unmoving. Hal was screaming, sobbing. Christopher was dead. Freeman was bent double, crying for Christopher. Yates was either unconscious or in a stupor; he couldn't tell which.

George started when he heard a loud squeak. Kramer's head jerked to the side in the direction of the noise. Pausing slightly, he nodded toward the source, urging the man he'd been speaking with to go investigate. While he proceeded to do so, Kramer strolled out into the center of the floor, still gripping the gun in one hand. George was surprised to see some slight movement from Jun while their captor had his back turned.

"Doushite naiteiru no?"

The question was quiet and pained, no more than a whisper. Hal sniffled uselessly and if anything, proceeded to cry even harder, perhaps in sudden relief that her fiance wasn't dead—yet. George looked between them and where the strange man had wandered off to. Surprise after horrid surprise had come their way and he was waiting for the next.

* * *

Elliot held his breath, hand still on the door. Had they heard him or not? Could he risk trying to open the door further? He heard footsteps. Twisting suddenly, he maneuvered behind a crate leaning against the wall just as the door opened. There was a man, one who was strongly built but didn't appear quite as gifted in the knowledge department. He decided to use this in his favor.

In a quick dash, he lunged at the man, who had obviously heard him as he spun quickly to meet the Detective. However, a well aimed punch sent him down, blood spurting from a broken nose even as his head cracked against the side of a rusted metal beam. Elliot winced at the noise, but he knew there was no time to check and see if the man was dead. And honestly, it wasn't as though he really cared anyway.

Regaining his composure, he slipped through the still open door. He could feel his heart hammering in his chest, threatening to climb up his throat and jump out his mouth. There was no way of telling how many people there were inside... or where they were. He couldn't risk firing anything now, considering he didn't know where George and the rest of them were being kept. Hell, he didn't even know if they were still alive.

_Idiot. Pay attention!_

He remained behind the cover of the boxes stacked sloppily around the warehouse. He kicked himself mentally as he heard a mocking jeer from Kramer echo across the warehouse to him.

"Why Detective Stabler, is that you? You're _dreadfully_ late, I'm afraid. We seem to have quite the pest problem tonight. But not to fear. We've already taken care of two of them."

Elliot froze. Two? Kimura and... who? Curiosity mixed with sudden dread urged him to peak from behind the boxes. He had just enough time to see the small group, tied together, and Kimura on the floor before being forced to pull back. He heard the pop of the gun go off too late, twisting back behind the boxes even as pain erupted in his shoulder. He hissed as he hurriedly moved a hand to the area to stifle the blood that had already begun to flow.

He heard someone call his name. It sounded desperate. It sounded worried. It sounded frantic. It sounded like George.

George clamped his jaw shut, unable to believe he'd allowed himself to call for Elliot in his panic. This hadn't escaped Kramer's notice; the blond haired man smirked cruelly down at him. The last thing he'd wanted was for Kramer to pick out the fact that he cared for the Detective... perhaps more than he should. He needed to keep his mouth shut.

"Just tell me one thing... what are you getting out of all of this?" Elliot grunted around the boxes.

"What am I getting out of it? Oh, you couldn't begin to understand, Detective. Then again, you are of a lesser mind, so it's understandable," Kramer sighed, smooth as silk.

Elliot snorted. Obviously the guy was trying to provoke his bad temper. But if he thought that was going to do it, then he was dead wrong.

"Lesser mind, huh? All right, I'll roll with that," Elliot admitted. "But you know there's no way you're getting out of this. You may as well just give it up."

"Get out? Oh, that was never my plan. But just because I won't get out doesn't mean you'll take me... or that anyone else will be leaving either," Kramer informed him calmly.

Frowning, Elliot peeked once more over the boxes. Kramer stared directly at him, making no move to do anything at all, never mind shoot him. Still at the ready, he crept out into the open, sharp blue eyes locked onto Kramer.

"And just what's that supposed to mean?" Elliot queried, feeling he already knew the answer.

"Well, I assumed that would be quite obvious. I know your _pals_ are on their way here right now, correct?" Kramer bounced back.

"Like I said," Elliot shrugged.

And for a moment, he locked eyes with the doctor bound on the floor, the man he was supposed to protect. Everything in the doctor's gaze told him to back down. To step back. And for a moment, he was taken by surprise because, mingled with all of this was concern. Elliot was used to concern from George... the man was naturally concerned about just about everyone. But this was different. This wasn't concerned as a psychiatrist. This was concerned as...

His eyes flickered back to Kramer. "Whaddaya want?"

"Satisfaction, Detective," Kramer said, maneuvering next to George. "The termination of the good Doctor Huang and his merry band of thieves. But of course you would want to prevent this, and yet, I find difficult to imagine how you could manage to do so in your position."

"How's that?" Elliot asked, grunting as he shifted his shoulder slightly.

"Well you're really in no condition to be firing a gun, what with your shoulder injured. Your aim could be thrown off. Not to mention," Kramer drawled on, once again raising his own gun to George's temple, "that if you somehow _did_ manage to shoot me, I'm afraid I just can't tell if my reflexes might react and... pull the trigger."

Elliot cursed under his breath. So that was his angle. He was going to draw this out for as long as he could. He knew he was going down, but he was going to make sure it was on his terms. Wincing slightly, he raised his gun all the same.

"You know, I really do hate stalemates," Kramer mention, bringing his free hand to George's neck. Elliot ground his teeth at the sight of a small blade, and the gun which was now pointed in his direction. "No hard feelings, I hope, Detective."

Elliot wanted to bellow at the injustice of it all. If he tried to shoot, there was no guarantee that he'd hit Kramer. If he did, there was no guarantee that that knife wouldn't slice right across George's throat. But if he stood there... he'd be shot and unable to do anything at all and George would die anyway. He glanced to Kimura. He didn't appear to be conscious. He needed to buy more time.

But he was distracted. George was mouthing something at him. He squinted, unsure, at first, of what the other was trying to relay. His eyes widened in sudden realization.

_Shoot him._

Was he crazy? George was no fool. He knew what could happen if he were to try that. And yet, as Elliot stared at him, unable to believe what he was saying, he could see that the doctor's dark eyes were resolute. At least with this option there was a chance that Kramer would die, rather than one of them. Elliot growled predatorily when Kramer dared press the knife closer to George's throat; blood beginning to spring up where it had cut in slightly.

"Well, I believe we're finished here," Kramer said, preparing to squeeze the trigger. "Goodnight, Detective."

* * *

Olivia Benson gnawed anxiously on her thumbnail, rather wishing Fin Tutuola would drive a little faster. She knew her partner well, very well. And if there was one thing she was certain of, it was that Elliot could lose his head in matters he blamed himself for. And in this situation, losing his head might cost him his life and someone else's. She barely waited for the car to stop moving before she jumped out... only to be greeted by a handful of unmarked cars.

"The Feds," John Munch grunted, coming to join them.

"Figures they would be here," Fin added, tossing a bulletproof vest to his partner.

The group began to make their way forward, only to find it blocked by a rather imposing FBI agent in dark sunglasses. Typical.

"This is a Federal matter, your assistance won't be needed," he informed them.

"Look, one of my Detectives is in there and the Doc's as much a part of my team as anyone else. So I'm afraid we'll be _assisting_ you whether you like it or not," Don Cragen informed him, looking as unmovable as a mountain.

The agent shifted in slight discomfort before reluctantly allowing them to pass, but not without a slight sneer. Twisting his head slightly as they proceeded, Fin sneered right back. As strange as it was, the Boys in Blue and the Feds were going to have to work together on this one. Cragen folded his arms over his chest, giving the place a good look.

"So what do we know?" he asked.

"There are at least eight persons inside, our target being one of them," someone spoke up.

"Right. Any idea at all as to the status of these persons?" an agent named Peter Fielding, apparently George's superior, asked.

"Currently, no. But if we were to get a little closer and use a high power infared, we might have an idea. The walls of this place are steel and it's not heated, so we'd be able to detect anything living fairly easily," Reuben Morales piped up.

"Sound like a plan. Morales, you get on that. Olivia, I want you and Fin to round some of the others up and make sure we have this place covered. But _don't_ let them know we're here," Cragen informed them sharply.

"Same goes for the rest of you. Farway, Dansfield. Take your groups round back and make sure any exits are secured. Solomon, I want snipers positioned in the next three minutes," Fielding ordered.

The given orders were executed swiftly by both sides. Perhaps it was because they felt a strange, almost unconscious need to compete with one another, but everything was done in record time, none-the-less. Cragen, Munch, and Fielding knelt by Reuben, who was working closely with an FBI agent on setting up an infared system. Munch glanced suspiciously at the two FBI agents, still not really trusting them. Then again, he supposed, the feeling was probably mutual... making the point moot.

"What've we got, Reuben?" Cragen asked, sounding anxious to know what was going on.

"Yeah, looks like... well, they must be huddled in a group right around here, seeing as it's such a large concentration of heat. Then there's these two stray heat sources. This one isn't moving... but this one is," Reuben pointed out.

"It would also seem that he's aiming a gun, judging by his posture. So either that's your detective, our agent, or the suspect. It would seem more likely that it were the suspect, considering he seems to be aiming at the group... unless, of course, the suspect is using the group for cover," the agent working with Reuben added.

Fielding spoke harshly into his walkie-talkie. "Are the snipers in positions yet?"

"Yes sir," came the reply. "But we can't get a clear shot. The suspect appears to have Agent Huang at knife point and is aiming a gun at the detective, who appears to be wounded."

"What about Kimura?"

"Agent Kimura is down, sir. Agent Wordsworth seems to be bound along with the others... one of whom appears to be dead."

Cragen cursed under his breath. The situation didn't sound good at all. He knew Elliot would be torn up... He didn't want to risk accidentally shooting the Doc. But did that mean he'd allow himself to be killed instead? The Captain's head snapped up in automatic response to the pop of gunfire accompanied by the harsh crackling of Fielding's walkie-talkie.

"Shots fired! Shots fired!"

Olivia didn't even wait for the order. Throwing the door open, she rushed in before the others could even get a word in. The moment she cleared the mound of boxes she knew...

Everything was all right.

Kramer lay on his side with a pool of blood collecting around the single gunshot wound to the head, his leg twitching in one final death spasm. Gun still drawn as the rest surrounded the place, she walked slowly over to the group. George lay on his side as well, Elliot bent over him. At first, she expected the worst, but was surprised by what greeted her.

"Elliot, it's fine, I'm all right! Please don't strain yourself!" George kept insisting.

Aside from the cut on his throat where the knife had been pressed against, he seemed unharmed. However, Elliot didn't relent, instead continually repeating some sort of apology. Even more surprising... were the tears that threatened to fall from those strong, steel blue eyes as he spoke. Olivia knelt quietly next to her partner and helped him untie George, who sat up quickly once freed.

"Elliot, calm down," George said quietly. "Please. You're injured and you've lost a lot of blood. You don't need any more strain right now. We're all right."

"El, you made the right choice. If you didn't shoot him, he would've killed you and everyone else," Olivia added helpfully.

"I don't care if that fucker lives or not, it's just... shit this hurts," Elliot hissed, bent double and fisting his hand in his jacket around the wound.

"Fin called a bus in on our way here, they should be here any minute," Olivia informed him.

"What about Kimura?" Elliot grunted.

"He's being taken care of," Olivia assured him.

"Wordsworth?"

"Her, too."

"Freeman? Christopher? Yates?"

"...you don't need to worry about that now, Elliot. Just focus on staying awake until the bus gets here," George said, reaching to help staunch the flow of blood.

"To hell with that," Elliot said, shooting up. "I've gotta make sure—"

But whatever he had to make sure of was never known. Because at that exact moment... Elliot fainted.

* * *

It's funny, the kinds of things you dream about when you pass out. For Elliot, it was always something that involved his kids and Kathy... something that made him happy. But strangely, the images of his children and his ex-wife were mingled with something else. Images of shouting matches in Cragen's office. Images of further petty precinct squabbles. Images of casually tossed quips of wit. Images of long discussions over nothing while seated on a now familiar sofa. And the images always involved the same person...

* * *

Elliot Stabler blinked rapidly, his eyes blurry from sleep. He surveyed his surroundings quietly. Ah, a hospital. Of course. The nagging pain in his shoulder told him that, yes, he had been shot. Which made him wonder of other things...

"You're awake."

The proclamation sounded relieved. He turned his head to see George straightening up in a chair next to his hospital bed. He allowed himself a small smirk.

"Come to play nursemaid?" Elliot asked.

"Only for you, Detective," George shot back with a small smile.

It was guilty and lacked humor. Elliot decided it didn't suit him. "Something's bothering you?"

"That supposed to be my question," George answered with a mirthless laugh. "Kathy and your kids were by earlier. They waited here for a few hours... I told them I'd keep an eye on you so they could get some rest."

"...they were by? What time is it?" Elliot asked hurriedly, frowning.

George checked his watch. "About... four in the morning."

"Ah, damn," Elliot cussed.

"Don't worry, I'm sure they'll be back once visiting hours are back up," George assured him.

"If visiting hours are over, how come you're still here?"

"One of the perks of being a doctor. I get to do whatever the hell I want."

"Well, that's useful," Elliot snorted in amusement. "Your neck."

George blinked and pulled the collar of his blue sweater up further to conceal the bandages. "It's fine. Gone in a day or so."

Elliot frowned.

"Elliot, please. You need to stop blaming yourself," George insisted quietly. "Nothing was your fault. If anything I... You shouldn't have been dragged into this mess. I shouldn't have let my guard down, I'm sorry."

Elliot stared at the doctor for a long while. The smaller man seemed to be contemplating something, and still worrying over him. For a moment the detective wondered how to word what he wanted to say.

"I could've shot you, George."

Er... perhaps a moment longer would have helped.

"What?" George asked.

"I said I could've shot you. You knew that, right?"

"Yes, I was well aware of that fact," George informed him.

"You trusted me that much?" Elliot asked, slightly surprised.

"Of course I trusted you," George said, sounding shocked that he would think otherwise. "Elliot I know you. You weren't about to let anything else happen that you didn't like. There was never a moment when I didn't trust you."

Elliot nodded slowly in understanding. For a while, the two sat in relative silence, the only sound coming from the monitoring system Elliot found himself hooked up to.

"I was an ass," Elliot said suddenly.

"No more so than I was," George informed him.

"Dammit, stop trying to be more stubborn than me."

"I would've figured you knew I was this stubborn by now."

"Point taken."

Again silence. Again broken by Elliot.

"We're horrible at this, aren't we?"

"Terrible," George agreed. He sighed suddenly, standing. "Well, judging by the way you're animatedly involved in conversation, I think we can say you'll make it. But I should really let you rest."

"Well, hey, wait," Elliot exclaimed, catching the doctor by the wrist before he had a chance to walk away.

George blinked, looking down to where Elliot held him by the wrist, back up to steel blue eyes. "Elliot?"

"Stay," Elliot said firmly. Relenting slightly. "Please?"

George looked mildly surprised, but nodded his consent, remaining standing. Elliot hadn't let go of his wrist yet anyway, so unless he wanted to know his limb off to escape like a coyote, he'd be staying there. Not that he'd really wanted to leave in the first place, but that was another matter entirely.

"I'm not sure how to say it," Elliot said suddenly.

"Excuse me?" George queried, suddenly snatched from his thoughts.

"I'm not even sure what it is... I mean..." Elliot grumbled agitatedly.

"Well... try to explain it in the simplest terms you can," George instructed.

Elliot nodded slightly, brightening. "Sure. I think I can do that."

"Good. Now what is it that—"

The doctor was abruptly cut off by Elliot grabbing a fistful of his sweater and dragging him closer. The detective uttered two words before tenderly bringing his lips to the doctor's:

"Analyze this."

—FIN—

* * *

D'aww, they kissed. That gives me the warm fuzzies! Well, I hope you enjoyed this as much as I did. And hopefully I'll see some of you around when I start writing the follow up fic! Well, until then, folks... over and out!

--The Sleeping Sage


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